You Will Call Me Friend
by cairistiona7
Summary: A gap-filler for Captain America: Civil War. What happened when Steve and Bucky made it outside the bunker and found T'Challa waiting? Rating nudged up for occasional coarse language, because Bucky. Spoilers for the movie, of course, since this is a gapfiller.
1. Chapter 1

_Many thanks to my betas three, Nath, Imbecamiel and Nefhiriel!_

-o0o-

"S-steve… you can't…"

"Shh, Buck. Save your strength."

"But your shield. You… can't just—"

"Leave it, Buck," Steve snapped, his tone as malleable as steel. "People are more important than a costume or a shield. _You're_ more important. Forget about it and concentrate on walking."

Bucky shut up. He may not remember everything about his old friend, but he did remember that trying to get Steve to see reason when he sounded like _that_ was like trying to tell the ocean to dry up. It wasn't gonna happen. Bucky's head was swimming too much to string together anything coherent anyway. His jaw and cheekbone ached where Stark kicked him, his left side and back burned from where a blast hit him after he'd lost the arm….

He swallowed hard, struggling to wrap his mind around the idea that his left arm was _gone._ Again. His shoulder and somehow even his arm itself—the arm that wasn't even _there—_ ached and cramped and… and, god, it felt like fire ants were biting up and down his skin, all the way to the finger tips that hadn't been there since 1944.

He'd felt a lesser version of that from time to time, more of a vague itch that rapidly clenching the metal fist several times usually eased, but nothing like this. HYDRA scientists never bothered explaining anything to him, but they must have put some sort of dampeners in the arm that blocked any pain. With the arm gone… yeah, it hurt like hell. He knew these days they called it called phantom limb pain. What a gas. A ghost with phantom limb pain. He couldn't hold back a soft laugh. He couldn't even be a ghost right these days.

"Bucky?"

"S'nothin'," he mumbled as Steve continued to half carry, half drag him toward the door of the underground bunker. He tried to straighten a little, put less of his weight on Steve, who had to be hurting himself. He was only partially successful. His legs held all the strength of wet newspaper. "You okay?"

"Nothing that won't heal itself in a few hours," Steve grunted.

"I'm sorry… I… this is my fault…"

"Thought I told you to be quiet," Steve grunted, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice as he added, almost under his breath, "And you always called me stubborn." He reset his grip around Bucky's waist. "Not much farther. You gonna make it?"

"I guess," Bucky sighed and dragged one foot in front of the other. They paused at the door. Bucky couldn't see squat through the hair hanging in his eyes, but he was too exhausted to shake it back.

"Damn it," Steve suddenly muttered and shoved Bucky back from the opening and against the wall so quickly that Bucky's feet tangled. He would have fallen flat on his face if Steve hadn't already had a tight grip. "Stay put," he ordered as he lowered Bucky to the floor.

"What is it?"

"T'Challa. He's out there."

Terror froze Bucky's breathing. He couldn't … Steve couldn't… neither of them had anything _left._ And now they had to face… _that?_ Those claws… the memory of them tearing into the wall beside his head back in Bucharest sent his gut into spasms. He imagined them sinking into Steve, who no longer had his shield to protect him. T'Challa would rip him to shreds and Bucky didn't have the strength to fend him off…

He took a deep breath. _Calm down, Barnes. You've pulled plenty a'guys off Steve._ He remembered pulling one particular bully off of him, long ago, in a back alley behind a theater. The memory grounded him, stemmed some of the panic. _God, what a dumb cluck Steve was back then. Getting' in fights, tryin' to get in the Army. Where was that 4F form from… Poughkeepsie? Peoria? Paramus! That was it. New Jersey. God forbid he even thought about pretending to be from Jersey..._

He reined in his wandering thoughts. "Sometimes I think you like getting punched," he murmured.

Steve glanced down at him. "What?"

He grinned a little. "Remember that? Day before I shipped out? When you got your ass handed to you in that alley behind the theater?"

"Hey, I had him on the ropes."

"Sure you did." _After I punched the guy and kicked him to the curb._ Bucky knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he didn't have it in him to kick T'Challa like that, even on a good day. _And this sure ain't a good day._

Steve looked around at the bunker, then down at himself. He brushed at his dusty uniform, dabbed at the blood on his face with the back of his hand. He stared at the glistening red on his glove. "You told me to get cleaned up because we were going to see the future."

"Yeah, well… this ain't exactly what I had in mind when I said that."

Steve squatted down, though he turned slightly so he could still keep an eye on T'Challa. He put a hand on Bucky's good shoulder and squeezed it, just as he had in the quinjet before they debarked and walked into this Siberian hellhole. "Remember all those wild science fiction stories we liked so much?"

Bucky shut his eyes. Saw Buck Rogers and Tarzan. "Reality's a hell of a lot stranger than fiction."

Steve's soft laugh was the same one from 1939, before… all this. So much was still the same, but so much was oh so terribly _different._

"Steve…"

"Yeah?"

He studied his friend. Committed the familiar features to his faulty memory, in case this really was the end of the line. He swallowed. "We had a good run, despite everything."

"Still are, still will," Steve said firmly. He stood up and resumed watching T'Challa.

 _Still the stupid eternal optimist, thinking there's some way we'll get out of this alive._ Bucky didn't want to laugh out loud at Steve's earnestly delivered bucket of bullshit, so he simply asked, "What's he doing?"

"Just sitting on a rock. Looks like he's got Zemo in custody. Got him tied to the strut of his plane's landing gear, so there's that, anyway. Now I guess he's just waiting for me and you. Gotta complete the trifecta to win the prize."

Bucky winced as a muscle in his upper back spasmed. With the weight of the arm gone and the nerves getting all kinds of crossed-up signals, everything was outta whack. He looked up at Steve, imagined again the claws shredding his friend… he bit his lip. _It can't happen. I can't let it happen. All the things the Soldier did, they happened and I couldn't stop them. But, now, today...I can do something. I can go out protecting Steve._

He reached out and touched Steve's boot. "Steve."

Steve glanced down. "Yeah, Buck?"

"I just wanna…" He took a deep breath. Tightened his leg muscles and pushed himself awkwardly to his knees, then his feet. Steve offered his hand, but Bucky shook his head. He braced himself against the wall for a moment, then stood tall. He felt awkward and unbalanced, yeah, but… he was standing straight, and if he was standing, he could walk, and if he could walk, he could run. If he could run, he could _fight_. "I just want to say thank you. For everything. To the end of the line, pal," he choked, then he lunged out the door.

"Bucky!"

He heard Steve's despairing shout. Didn't let it stop him. "Get to the jet and get outta here!" _God almighty, Steve, for once do as I say._ He had just enough left in him for one final fight. If he had to go down, he'd go down being the shield to replace the one Steve left behind.

"T'Challa!" he roared.

The man uncoiled from his seat on the rocks. His cat-like helmet was off, lying in the snow beside him. He seemed completely unperturbed that a madman was bearing down on him.

 _Do I look that pitifully unimpressive?_

 _Probably._

Bucky had to force his legs to keep moving. Had to let a little of the Soldier stir, use him to forget the fatigue. The pain. But he didn't let the Soldier out of the box completely. He never would again, not unless someone spoke those horrible words.

He had no plan. No metal arm. Nothing but the bulk of his body as he slammed into T'Challa. T'Challa went down and they rolled over and over in the snow, down a short slope, a tangle of arms and legs. Bucky felt a knee crack into his ribs, then strong hands lifted him and threw him a good ten feet. His back smashed into a rock, and though it stunned him, he knew nothing was broken. He struggled up to his knees. Glanced back toward Steve, who was still some ways off, limping toward them instead of toward the quinjet. "Damn it, Steve," he gasped. "Go on, get outta here!"

But the stupid, stubborn punk kept coming, unwavering. "No! Not without you!"

Bucky felt like crying. Stupid, stupid, stubborn Irish _idiot_ , throwing his own words at him, ruining Bucky's one final chance to redeem the last moments of his miserable life by saving his best friend. "Steve, just _go!_ Don't steal this from me," he cried as he forced himself all the way to his feet and launched himself weakly at T'Challa, bracing for the pain of claws tearing into his throat.

To his shock, T'Challa did not meet him with claws bared, but simply… caught him. Bucky's legs failed, and T'Challa wrapped one arm around Bucky's chest and one around his waist and gently… _gently? ..._ lowered him to the ground. "Peace, my friend. I no longer seek your blood, nor do I seek to detain Captain Rogers."

Bucky stared up at the dark eyes. They held no malice, no rage. Only a soft sorrow. "But you…your father… you thought I…"

"In the building, a few moments ago." He nodded toward the bunker. "You did not see me, but I heard everything Zemo said. I know now it was he who murdered my father, not you. To my shame, I let my need for vengeance blind me to the greater need to seek the truth. I see now that you are a victim as much as my father, perhaps more so, if my understanding of all that has happened to you is correct."

Bucky stared. He knew he looked like an idiot but...this was not what he expected and his brain refused to switch tracks. "I don't... what…"

"My father died once and is now free, but you have been dying for seventy years, over and over, with no comfort, no freedom. Perhaps it is a far better vengeance to help right the wrongs done to you."

Bucky still couldn't quite comprehend it, but instead of trying to sort it all out, he simply grasped the only truth that mattered at the moment: he no longer had to fight. It was over. Steve was safe. He let himself go limp.

He immediately heard Steve's anguished shout. "Bucky! No!"

 _Oops_.

Bucky raised his head as Steve's footsteps pounded toward them. "Steve, it's all right. I'm fine. He knows…" He didn't have the breath to finish, so he waved vaguely at T'Challa to explain. Bucky just wanted to sleep. He was so tired. His left arm that wasn't there hurt. His back hurt. Everything hurt. He shut his eyes and dropped his head back down. Cold snow seeped through his hair to chill his scalp. He didn't care.

Steve's footsteps stopped by Bucky's side. "T'Challa. Is that true?" he asked, his tone respectful but with no warmth in it whatsoever.

"I have made a grave error, and for that I apologize and ask your forgiveness, Captain."

A pause. "Call me Steve. I no longer hold the rank of Captain."

Bucky opened his eyes at that. _Punk really is giving it up. I hope not for me. He needs to be the Captain, needs to make a difference._ "Steve, don't…"

Steve cut a glare at him and Bucky bit back about a dozen retorts. He settled instead on struggling to lean on his elbow and scowl with as much disapproval as his tired face could muster. Must not'a been all that effective. Steve completely ignored him.

"What will the two of you do now?" T'Challa asked.

 _Good question_.

"Tony Stark will need a ride home," Steve said. "As will Zemo. If your plane can take two passengers, I'll take Bucky in the quinjet and—"

T'Challa interrupted. "And go where? There is nowhere on the planet you can hide from the authorities."

"Guess I'll just have to see for myself if that's true."

"And you both need medical attention," T'Challa continued as if Steve hadn't spoken. Bucky was starting to actually like this guy. "Sergeant Barnes especially. Fixing his arm will be a challenge far above the skills of any hospital you might sneak him into."

Bucky saw a muscle jump along Steve's jaw. "We'll figure it out as we go."

"I have a possible solution, if I may."

Steve looked at Bucky.

Bucky shrugged. Then winced because shrugging his left shoulder was _not a good idea_. "Can't hurt to hear him out."

Steve nodded. "All right. Let's hear it."

"I can offer you sanctuary in Wakanda," T'Challa said. "My jet will indeed carry two more passengers. It will be cramped, but the plane is fast; the journey to my home will not take long. We can leave your jet for Mr. Stark."

Steve shook his head. "What about Zemo? He'll know we went with you. He'll tell Stark. You'll find yourself in a lot of hot water that you don't deserve."

T'Challa frowned, looking back toward where Zemo presumably still sat tied to the landing gear strut. Their fight, such as it was, had carried them quite a ways away from Zemo, out of sight and out of earshot. "I am not concerned with any hot water, as you put it. If Zemo suspects I aided in your escape, I will not deny it, for there are many layers to this situation, and I am but a small part of a larger, more complex picture. I will suffer no harm, for I am king of my country now and they dare not impose penalty upon me. I have leverage that you do not."

"Lucky cat," Bucky mumbled.

T'Challa smiled briefly. "But your point is well made. It would be better to avoid too many unnecessary complications." He eyed Steve up and down. "I have a plan that may work, but first I must ask one thing: you seem in little better shape than your friend. Do you have the strength to fly a plane as far as need be?"

 _Ooh, good point, T'Challa_. "Yeah, pal," Bucky said in his best Brooklyn drawl. Or at least the best one he could remember. "You up for this?"

Steve gave him a withering look.

"Hey, it's a legitimate concern. You're swaying on your feet. Much as I wouldn't mind sleeping for 70 years, I'd rather not do it because you passed out and crashed the plane."

Steve's mouth opened and closed several times. "Bucky," he finally managed, but he was obviously completely disconcerted.

"Yeah, I read about that in the museum, too." He suddenly grinned, which felt… oddly satisfying and, from Steve's expression, must look completely unnerving. Bonus points for Bucky Barnes remembering how to be a total asshole. "Now answer the king's question."

"I'm fine," Steve growled.

T'Challa seemed very amused by their bickering, but he held his mirth in check. "Very well. Here, then, is my suggestion: I will remain out of sight while you both hurry to your jet. Let Zemo see you, for he will assume the two of you bested me."

Bucky couldn't help but snort. As if.

T'Challa 's eyes gleamed with quiet triumph, but he kept his tone sober. "Meanwhile, I will come unseen from the opposite direction, slip into the cockpit and enter all the codes and navigation data you will need. I also will send a message to my security team instructing them to treat you as my honored guests. They will not question my orders. After you are gone, I will take Stark and Zemo back to Berlin or wherever Stark wishes to go."

That sounded good enough for Bucky, but Steve chewed his lip, apparently searching for any fatal flaws in the plan.

 _"Who's here to prove that we can?_

 _… the star-spangled man with a plan!"_

Bucky bit back a laugh. Of all times to remember that stupid song. Maybe he should whistle it.

Maybe he was getting delirious.

"My strategy is sound, Captain," T'Challa said.

Steve finally nodded. "All right. We'll go with it."

"Very well." T'Challa knelt beside Bucky. "Sergeant Barnes, I will see you again in my home country. I look forward to getting to know you as you truly are."

Whatever giddiness Bucky felt from surviving the fight drained away. "I don't know if that's possible," he said, dropping his gaze.

T'Challa bent his head low, forcing Bucky to meet his eyes. "I think I have already seen the true man today, the friend who would give his life for his brother."

Bucky glanced at Steve, but had to look down again. "I don't know," he whispered. "I don't know what's me and what's HYDRA. Can't trust myself."

"Then trust in Steve Rogers, and trust in me. I am confident we can help you find yourself once more. And I am equally confident that, when the day finally comes when you walk free from the shadows, you will call me friend."

Bucky met his gaze at that.

"I already do."

-o0o-

 _Not sure if I'll continue this or leave it as a one-shot. Thoughts? Anyone interested in seeing Bucky all the way to Wakanda and cryo?_


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky's legs and feet weren't on the best of terms with his brain. In fact, he was pretty sure they were no longer speaking. The adrenaline that had carried him through the entire encounter with T'Challa was completely depleted. Couldn't even get the Soldier to stir, which, the more he thought about it, was probably just as well. As exhausted as he was, he didn't think he could hold the Soldier back.

He stumbled for the third time in nearly as many steps.

"You gonna make it?"

"Just keep going," he rasped.

"I can carry—"

"No!" Bucky didn't need that kind of humiliation. James Buchanan Barnes, slung over Captain America's shoulder, or worse, carried in his arms like some damsel in distress? No, sir. Bad enough he had to hang on Steve like a drunkard on New Year's. Come to think of it, he did feel a little drunk on the giddy aftermath of _survival._ On not getting clawed, not getting _too_ badly blasted. On being granted an _entire country_ to hide in when he wasn't sure he deserved so much as a safe house or even a safe _room_. Yeah, he'd coast a little longer on the power of sheer relief and make it out of here just fine on his own two stumbling feet, thank you. "I can make it."

"Okay." Steve's voice was deceptively mild, like he knew Bucky was going to collapse and when he did, he'd be right there with his arms crossed and "I told you so" all over his face. It was 1927 all over again.

" _I can too walk the fence all the way past Mr. Fishbein's dog! You just watch me!"_

 _Steve aimed his stupid, smug gaze at him over his Charleston Chew bar. "You'll fall."_

" _Will not."_

" _Will too."_

" _In case you hadn't noticed, I'm good at this kinda stuff. Didn't I climb to the top of the biggest maple tree in Brower Park?"_

 _Steve shrugged. "Didn't have a dog snapping at your heels."_

 _"But a copper coulda showed up any minute. Bet you the rest of your Charleston Chew against the aggie I won from Barney Peters that I can do it."_

 _Steve shook his head. "Nope."_

" _Come on, Steve!"_

" _You'll fall and crack your gourd. Ain't gonna profit from my best friend fallin' and crackin' his gourd."_

 _Well, that was noble and all, but still, Bucky's honor was at stake. "I won't bust my gourd."_

" _Okay. If you say so."_

" _I do say so."_

" _All right then."_

 _Bucky hated when Steve got that tone in his voice. The one that said that even though Steve agreed, he really didn't. Bucky stuck his tongue out at him and clambered to the top of the gate. The brindle mutt that was the terror of the block was sleeping in front of his doghouse, but he raised his head and growled when he saw Bucky teetering atop the gate. Bucky shot a grin back at Steve, then started hurrying along the top of the fence, his feet sure and quick… until the dog charged and leaped snarling and snapping at him. He flinched, his right foot slipped, and he fell onto the sidewalk. He hit his head hard enough to see stars._

 _Steve's face loomed over his. "Told ya."_

Bucky scowled. "I said I can make it."

"All right."

"Damn it, Steve, you're still just as big an asshole as you were when we were kids."

"What? I didn't say anything!"

"You used that _tone._ "

He might have won the argument, but he stumbled again and Steve had to grab him around the waist to keep him from crackin' his gourd in the frozen Siberian dirt. Bucky's hair had fallen over his eyes again, but he could _feel_ Steve smiling. He grumbled a curse in Russian.

"I'm not smug," Steve said, "and my mother and father were married in the eyes of God and the law three years before I was born, so I'm not a _Yблюдок_ , either."

"Since when do you know Russian?"

"Natasha Romanoff. Now look sharp, we're almost to T'Challa's jet. And Zemo."

They fell quiet as they passed the plane. Zemo sat with his head down. Bucky was hard-pressed to tell if Zemo even noticed they'd stumbled past. Maybe T'Challa had knocked him out or something.

"Here we go," Steve panted. He dragged Bucky up the ramp and into the jet. "Shotgun? Or do you want to lay down in the back? Some of the seats fold down into beds."

A bed was very tempting, but they still weren't out of the thick of it. "Shotgun. Gotta make sure you don't fly us into an iceberg."

"Yeah, you're not gonna let that go anytime soon, are you?"

Bucky grinned as he maneuvered himself into the co-pilot's seat. "Got seventy years' worth of insults to catch up on."

"Terrific. Just say 'em in English, save me having to do a bunch of homework. My Russian's not _that_ good," Steve muttered as he helped Bucky buckle the safety straps. "Tight enough?"

Bucky nodded. The desire to tease withered away under a new onslaught of pain. He hissed and angrily muttered curses in six languages.

"What is it?"

"Damn arm that isn't there _hurts_." He leaned his head back and shut his eyes. "Just get us out of here."

He heard Steve throw himself into left seat. Bucky pried his eyes open so he could watch Steve's preflight. It gave him something to focus on besides the jangling, zapping pain shooting from his shoulder to his spine straight up into his brain. Battered and exhausted as they both were, he figured they needed both sets of eyes, but Steve went through the startup procedures quickly, as sure and steady as he'd been back in Berlin when they'd stolen the jet to begin with. One by one, the radar, altimeter, weapons and sundry other vital instruments came to life in a growing crescendo of humming gyros and beeping computers. Steve gave the readouts a last cursory glance. "Looks good. Let's hope the plane isn't frozen to the ground."

He grasped the yoke and as the engines spooled up, he gently nudged back the stick. Bucky felt a growing vibration in his seat and his ears rang with the engines' roar. The plane lifted, but Bucky frowned. It was shaking oddly and seemed a lot louder than it should. Even as he had the thought, he felt a rush of cold air.

"Uh, Steve?" he yelled. "Did you close the back door?"

Steve dropped his chin to his chest for a moment, then reached out and punched the button. Hydraulics whirred and clunked in the tail section. The door slammed to a close and the plane grew much quieter. Steve gave him a sheepish sideways glance. "Thanks."

"I knew there was a reason why I didn't want to take a nap back there."

Steve resumed his careful ascent. Bucky felt like screaming at him to go faster, but he supposed Steve was trying to keep the wash from the engines from throwing rocks at T'Challa. Bucky didn't really care if a rock hit Zemo. Let a boulder fall on him. Bucky glanced out the window at the bunker. A small light flickered within the darkness of the doorway. "Steve." He pointed.

"I see him."

"Think his suit has enough power to shoot us down?"

"Don't see how. I jammed my shield pretty good into its arc reactor."

Tony Stark staggered out into the open. Bucky heard Steve's breath catch as for a moment they stared at him through the canopy. Stark's expression was unreadable as he stared back at them. He didn't raise his arm, didn't fire off any blasts. Just looked up at them. Steve pulled the yoke over and opened the throttle. Tony and the bunker dropped away.

Bucky leaned his head back and stared out at the sky above them, trying to bring his breathing back to normal.

"Buck?"

Bucky shut his eyes. "I'm tired, Steve." He suddenly shivered, and before he knew it, he was trembling all over. He hugged himself as best he could with only one arm.

"Bucky, you're shaking. What's going on?"

"Cold, I guess." But it didn't feel like cold. Not normal cold, anyway.

"Your arm...is it bleeding?"

Bucky shook his head. Zapping him every few minutes, aching, tingling… but not bleeding. "I'm just… everything hurts."

Steve sighed. "We'll be out of Russian airspace in a few minutes, then I'll put it on autopilot, check you over." He scrolled through the headings for the course T'Challa had laid in. He nudged the nose up a little more and fiddled with a few knobs and buttons. He seemed to know what he was doing, so Bucky gave up watching to stare dully at a gray-white line on the horizon that rapidly broadened into the ice-clogged waters of the East Siberian Sea. Steve turned the plane a few degrees to fly straight north, then leveled out. "Looks like T'Challa has us crossing the North Pole, then threading the needle between Greenland and Europe. We'll stay over the ocean until we get to Africa, then turn eastward over about a half dozen nations to get to Wakanda."

Bucky grunted. He was past the point of caring how they got there. He just wanted to _be_ there.

Steve punched the autopilot and unhooked his harness. Bucky was vaguely aware of him getting up and rummaging around behind the seats. Next thing he knew, a warm blanket landed softly over him. He grabbed at it like a lifeline and pulled it up to his chin.

"Buck, I'm sorry… I should have handled Tony better… told him about everything. I shouldn't have let Zemo blindside us with that video."

"Shut up, Steve," Bucky murmured.

"But—"

"But nothin'. Maybe I didn't deserve to get framed for Vienna, but I sure as hell deserved everything Stark threw at me. I should be the one apologizing. I shouldn'a run. Shoulda stayed with you. I just… I guess I hoped that if I left, he'd calm down. Quit fighting you, at least, and maybe come after me later or… I dunno. Didn't really think it through."

Steve sighed. "I thought the same thing, more or less. I didn't want him to kill you. Thought maybe if I could at least get you away, I could subdue Tony, get him to calm down, listen to reason. Didn't really work out."

Bucky grunted again. He really, _really_ did not feel up to a long session of swapping heartfelt regrets. He just wanted to sleep. He shut his eyes, but then jumped a little when Steve reached over and nudged the blanket aside.

"Sorry!" Steve held both hands up and away.

"S'all right."

"I just want to check your injuries." He started unhooking Bucky's harness. "How are you, really? I mean… what other injuries do you have that you aren't telling me about?"

He resisted the urge to slip into Soldier mode and _report._ Instead he pulled out his old Brooklyn drawl. "Head hurts like we spent the night drinking the clubs in Harlem dry."

"We never actually did that."

"No? Good. Thought maybe it was just that I didn't remember because of…." His voice trailed as he stared into the distance. "They still got clubs in Harlem?"

"Yeah. Banner had an… incident there. Messed a lot of 'em up, but they're coming back, slowly."

Bucky winced as Steve ran his hand over the side of his head where Stark had kicked him. "Banner… that's the big green guy?"

"We call him the Hulk. Or just Hulk. If Banner gets angry, he turns into what Tony calls a giant green rage monster. He's not wrong. Hulk is kind of a monster."

Big green guy. A tiny guy who also gets really big but also is normal sized. A girl that throws red fire out of her hands. "Steve?"

He stopped his gentle probing of Bucky's cheekbone and orbital bone. "What?"

"It occurs to me I may not be your weirdest friend."

"Far from it, Bucky. Far from it. Now come on. Let's see if we can get you a more comfortable seat in the back. As far as I can tell, nothing's broken. Well, except your arm. I don't think I can do much for that, but I can find the first aid kit and clean you up a little, if you want."

Moving was the last thing he wanted to do, but he supposed it might feel better to stretch out. Maybe the zaps would stop. He shoved the blanket off and hauled himself up out of the chair.

Steve briefly grasped his right elbow to steady him as he staggered out of the cockpit. "Making it okay?"

"Yeah."

"Hold onto that handle." Steve curled Bucky's hand around a brushed chrome handhold attached to the wall. He glanced at his charred jacket. "How's your side, where you got blasted?"

He glanced down. With his arm causing so much pain, he'd barely noticed the injury along his ribs. "Uh… guess the jacket took most of it?"

Steve lifted it to check and then gave Bucky the same look he gave him on the way back from Azzano when Bucky tried to hide how bad off he really was.

"Okay, okay. It stings. A little."

Steve let out a disapproving huff of breath, but he didn't do anything besides tug the jacket back in place. He hurried aft and punched a button on the side of one of the seats. It slowly flattened out into a configuration like... like…

 _Chair… electricity… mind wiped… gone… everything gone…_

Bucky's hand clenched around the safety handle hard enough to cause him pain. "No."

Steve looked at him and then at the chair and then back at him with dawning horror. "Oh...god, I'm sorry..."

 _Breathe, Barnes. Just breathe._

 _Breathe._

 _Focus._

 _No chair. No HYDRA. Just Steve and safety._

He turned away and dropped back into the co-pilot's seat. "You need to stay in the front anyway, keep an eye on the plane."

"I'm sorry, Buck. I didn't think... "

"I'm glad you don't have to," Bucky murmured. He pulled the blanket back up to his chin, shut his eyes and tried not to think about chairs and electricity and the dark tentacles of HYDRA still lurking in his mind.

 _tbc..._

-o0o-

1920s period terms:

Aggie – marble made from agate

Charleston Chew – a candy bar popular in that era that can still be purchased today. It has a nougat/taffy-like center covered with chocolate. And no, I've never tried one.

Yблюдок... google told me it was Russian for bastard. Hopefully google is right. _  
_


	3. Chapter 3

_Warning for medical procedures…nothing horribly gory, per se, but there are needles and such in the last half of the chapter, so if that's a no for you, stop after the (non-spoilery) line:_

He leaped to his feet and starting yanking drawers open. "Where is it… where is it… damn it, where… there!"

 _There'll be a non-detailed summation at the end of the chapter._

-o0o-

He woke up whimpering with pain, grabbing for the arm that wasn't there. He immediately clenched his jaw, stifling any noise. _The Soldier does not show pain. Does not feel pain. Does not—_

"Bucky, you doing okay?"

He blinked slowly at Steve as he struggled to place himself in the here and now. In the _who_ and now.

 _Breathe._

 _Focus._

 _Bucky Barnes… 32557038… quinjet… Wakanda… arm, ribs, head and everything except my right pinky toe hurts like everlasting hell, and I ain't so sure about that toe..._

He blinked again.

 _And I don't have to hide all this pain from Steve because Steve won't punish me._

(He might hide it out of pride, but what did he have to be proud about these days?)

He let out a very long, wince-filled sigh. "I… I guess."

Steve frowned, _because of course you would frown, it's your default expression_ , but he nodded. "Still got a long way to go. Can you hang on?"

"If I can't, I give you permission to toss me out the back door and put me out of my misery." _Or to get rid of me if the Soldier takes over…_

Steve's frown relaxed into a somewhat grim smile. "Won't come to that."

Bucky was a little afraid it might. He'd woken up more than once to find himself destroying his apartment while lost in nightmare-triggered programming. Waking up just now, the Soldier had felt perilously close to taking over. At least with the arm gone, he probably couldn't do too much damage to the jet.

Small comfort.

He rubbed his eyes and stretched them wide. Scooted a little straighter in his seat. The blanket fell from his chest to pool on his lap. He absently pulled it back over himself as he looked out the window. Nothing but icy ocean for as far as he could see. "How long did I sleep?" He wished his voice sounded a little stronger.

"About two hours. Still about 15 hours away, probably a little longer."

"Damn. Guess Wakanda's a long way from Siberia."

"Yeah. The roundabout route we have to take makes it even farther."

"What about refueling? This thing's got that long a range?"

"Yep. Engines run basically on the same thing as his Iron Man suit. Arc reactor, maybe a couple of 'em, buried deep in the plane somewhere, shielded from EMP's, armored as much as possible against missile strike."

"Or against you jamming your shield into it in a fit of rage."

"Yeah. That too, I guess."

Silence fell between them. "Steve, I never meant to come between you and your friends."

"You didn't."

Bucky raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, maybe in some ways you did, but the rift between the Avengers is mostly because of the Accords, not you."

"You didn't come within an eyelash of killing Tony over political differences."

Steve took a while before he answered. "You're right. That was about you, but not because of you."

"Steve, that makes no sense."

A bitter laugh. "Bucky, nothing in my life has made sense since the night of the Expo."

Bucky didn't say anything. There was no need. He finally cleared his throat and changed the subject. "So… we're flying over water, mostly?"

"It's safer. Less chance anyone spots us."

"Thought this thing had stealth."

"It does. Technically, it's invisible to visual, IR, RF… all of it. Trouble is, you can't completely muffle a sonic boom. I couldn't go supersonic until we were well away from Siberia. When we near Greenland, we'll slow down again and stay that way until we're out over the Atlantic, away from civilization. That'll lengthen the trip, but there's no avoiding it. Since you're not bleeding out or in a coma or anything immediately life threatening…?"

Bucky shook his head.

"… and I'm feeling good enough, safest place is in the air and invisible, until we get to Wakanda."

"You sure you're okay?"

"Little stiff from bruising, is all. I've had worse beat downs."

"From me," Bucky whispered. He stared down at his fist as he twisted the blanket.

Steve reached over and squeezed the back of his neck. "Not what I meant, Buck. That wasn't you, and I've lived through way worse."

 _Worse than being shot, stabbed and beaten to a pulp by the fists of your own friend? Because, yeah pal, maybe I was followin' the wrong orders, but it was me. I did it._ Time to change the subject again. "How fast can this thing go if you don't have to worry about being sneaky?"

"Mach 2.5, give or take. If you need me to, I can toss caution to the wind and hit the afterburners. We can probably outrun anything but another quinjet."

"Nah. I'm okay." He mentally crossed his fingers. He didn't really feel okay at all, but surely his body would start to heal any time now. Or at least, all of it except the arm. Couldn't exactly grow a new one. "Some coffee'd be nice, but…"

"Sorry, got MRE's and Gatorade, I think. I also saw a bag of dried blueberries, probably Stark's. He's like a squirrel, stashes 'em away everywhere. There's bottled water under the armrest on your right."

Dried blueberries sounded horrible, so Bucky lifted the armrest and found a compartment filled with about a dozen plastic bottles. He grabbed one and used his teeth to unscrew the lid. He downed half of it and leaned his head back as he felt some life trickle back into his body. Guess he was dehydrated. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had anything to eat or drink. He tried not to think about the plums he bought but never had a chance to eat. Or the candy bar sitting on top of his refrigerator.

He lolled his head and looked at Steve. He looked a natural, sitting behind the controls. "Since when did you become such a badass pilot?"

"I'm not. Hawkeye usually flies this thing around for us. Or Natasha. I can take off, turn on the autopilot and land, but you better pray we don't get into a dogfight."

"Or have to land on that ice down there. Because we all know how well you handle ice landings."

Steve gave him the side-eye. "Seventy years apart and all you can do is insult me about my flying skills?"

Bucky slowly smiled. "We can always talk about shoes and newspapers."

-o0o-

"…did _not_ steal that pie. Mrs. Bedemeier _gave_ me that pie." Steve continued gently cleaning the blood from Bucky's face.

"You _stole_ it. I may not remember everything, but I remember that. You took a milk crate and climbed up on it with your skinny bird legs and stole it from her windowsill. Then we ran down to the tree house we built in the big elm behind that abandoned house on Van Dyke. Ate it so fast you got a stomach ache and threw half of it back up. Biggest waste of pie I've ever seen."

Steve laughed. He wadded up the bloodstained gauze and tossed it toward the back. "Okay, okay. I stole the pie."

"Damn straight you did. God forbid the world ever finds out about Captain America's misspent, pie-stealing youth. And it was _apple_ pie. Captain America, stealing apple pies. You're the worst."

"I was hungry."

Bucky snorted. "No one realizes that you're really just a little shit who breaks the rules when they don't suit you."

"Yeah, well… they probably realize it now."

Bucky sobered. "Yeah," he agreed softly. "Guess they do."

"Damn it, Buck, I'm sorry. Shouldn'a said that. I know that's not what you meant."

"No, it's okay. I just…" He stared down at his lap. Clenched his fist. "How'd we go from stealing pies to… all of this? We were _both_ supposed to be heroes. That was always the plan."

Steve swallowed and blinked a few times. He opened his mouth twice, then set his jaw. "You were a hero and still are, the best I've fought beside, including the people I team up with now."

Bucky chewed his lip. "No, Steve. None of those people would have done what I—"

"Bucky, stop. There was _nothing_ you could have done in the face of what they did to you. Any one of us would have been broken by that."

Bucky said nothing. Arguing wouldn't accomplish anything, not with the way Steve, in his own annoyingly immutable way, was clinging to what he saw as the truth. Bucky would do better arguing with his empty plastic water bottle. He opened the compartment and tucked it in with the full ones, pulling another out. He awkwardly stretched his arm across his chest to offer it to Steve. The move woke up the angry beast that had gone mostly quiet after his nap. It started gnawing hard on his shoulder and ribs. He forced himself to hide the pain, but his voice was tight. "Drink."

Steve took the bottle, but he didn't miss a beat. "Still hurting pretty bad?"

Bucky thought about lying, just to spare Steve the worry. Knew it'd be useless. His face was probably a nice shade of gray by now. Some things couldn't be masked, like the fact that breathing was suddenly causing his entire left side to feel like Stark was plunging a knife in his lung. He pressed his right hand against his ribcage. It helped a little. "Yeah. Think I tweaked something just now."

"You sure you don't want to stretch out in the back? No chair this time. This thing has beds that fold down from the walls. You don't even have to watch me get it ready."

It would feel good to stretch out, maybe grab some more shut-eye, so he nodded. Steve headed to the back and after a minute or so Bucky heard some clunks and clicks and metallic sliding noises. Visions of a chair and guns and electricity wormed into his mind, and a droning voice speaking Russian words...

 _...желание..._

 _...ржaвый..._

The cockpit suddenly felt very small. Too small. He needed to get out…

 _Cool it, Barnes. Where you gonna go? Jump out and take a long walk across Arctic ice and then swim to Africa?_

Steve reappeared in the cockpit and Bucky could breathe again. Sort of. He still felt like Stark was stabbing him.

"Okay, all set," Steve said. "Let me help you up."

"I don't need hel—"

"Shut up, Bucky," Steve growled. Like before, he stood ready to put a hand under Bucky's right arm as Bucky levered himself out of the chair.

Bucky wobbled a little, tried to reach out with the arm that wasn't there and, despite Steve lunging to try to catch him, stumbled hard against the plane's bulkhead with his entire left side. "Shit," he gasped. The world broke up into black spots.

"Bucky!"

Steve's voice and the iron grip on his elbow brought him back. "That… smarts."

"C'mon." Steve slung Buck's right arm over his shoulder and wrapped an arm low around his waist, just like he had in the bunker, and helped him walk to the back.

Bucky eyed the bed. It was a sort of thin ledge that looked like it could be folded up against the inner fuselage. Not the least little bit like a chair. That was good.

Steve reached with the arm that wasn't holding Bucky and pulled the blanket back. Bucky lowered himself gingerly, not sure it would hold him.

"The Hulk has sat on that thing, Buck. You're not going to break it."

"'kay." He didn't have breath for more than that. He pressed his hand against his ribs again and concentrated on trying to breathe with just one side of his chest. He wasn't very successful, but keeping his hand against his ribs made it feel a little better.

Steve tossed the blanket across him. Then he squatted down beside the bed, looking at what was left of Bucky's left arm. "Buck, I don't know a lot about electricity and still less about whatever those wires in your arm do, but… what if the pain you feel is from wires short-circuiting?"

Bucky looked disinterestedly at the arm. The zaps had gotten a little lost in all the pain from the bashing he just gave his ribs. "Dunno. Maybe."

Steve hurried over to a bank of drawers. He opened one and pulled out a flashlight. "Let me look."

"What, you Captain Electricity now?" He remembered a time before the war when Steve accidentally shocked himself plugging in a toaster. Kid hadn't exactly been a master electrician.

"I'll have you know I once helped Tony hotwire a helicarrier in the middle of an alien attack. I think I can recognize bare wires touching where they shouldn't."

Bucky fell silent as Steve shone the light into the mess inside what was left of the arm. He angled the light this way and that, muttering things like, "Huh," and "Okay," and, "Oh, now that's interesting."

Bucky had enough. "Th'hell you see in there?"

Steve raised his head. Tugged at his earlobe. "I have no idea." Bucky narrowed his eyes at him, so he hurried on. "But I do see scorch marks and some melted wire coating. I'm going to find some electrical tape and maybe even some wire nuts, cap off the broken ends, tape the bare spots. Do some shade tree mechanic stuff in there, basically, maybe stop it from shorting out over and over."

"'Shade tree mechanic stuff'?" _God help us._

Steve grinned a little, then disappeared to the back of the plane. He rummaged and banged around long enough to make Bucky worry they'd be in Wakanda before he came back, but Steve finally returned, his hands full of tape, a pair of pliers, and a bag of some bright yellow things that looked like the caps off of toothpaste tubes. He also had what looked like some sort of hand-held meter tucked under his arm. "You know what to do with all that?"

"Yep." He folded down a small utility shelf and dumped his treasures on it. The roll of black tape fell off and rolled under the bed. Steve dove under and grabbed it, then hit his head on the way back up. "Ow."

"You all right?"

"Yeah." He scrubbed at a spot on his scalp. "Funny how super serum doesn't really take away the sting."

Laughing would hurt too much, so Bucky just shut his eyes.

"Okay, I'm going to see what I can do. Let me know if I do anything that hurts."

Bucky nodded. He felt Steve's hand rest lightly on what was left of his arm. He couldn't help but tense up.

"You okay?"

"Just do it."

He heard Steve rip off several pieces of tape. "Okay, gonna reach in on 3. 1, 2, 3…"

Bucky felt a small tug, then… "Shit!" he yelped as Steve cursed and yanked his hand back. Sparks showered out of the socket and acrid smoke curled up into the air and his entire shoulder lit up with buzzing, vibrating _pain_. Fortunately, as soon as he jerked away from Steve's clumsy butterfingers, the sparks and the pain quit. "What the hell, Rogers?" It was the damn toaster all over again.

"Sorry, sorry! I just… I musta bumped something I shouldn't have. Not a lot of room to work in there with hands as big as mine."

"Then use the pliers," Bucky growled. Damn it. He needed to hold that arm in the worst way, but he couldn't because it wasn't fucking _there._

"Maybe I should just leave it alone."

"No, if you see something, fix it. I'll just… I'll be all right."

"You sure?"

Bucky started breathing deeply through his nose, or as deeply as his ribs allowed. He nodded tersely.

Steve took his own deep breath, wincing a little like he always did before he had to do something stupid or heroic. Or stupidly heroic. Bucky tried to find comfort in knowing that most of the time, the heroic was successful despite the stupid.

This time he watched as Steve carefully reached in with the pliers. "Don't move," Steve warned as he stretched out one of the wires. Bucky felt it tug a little, but there was no pain. "Doing all right?"

"Yeah."

Bucky could see a section of bare copper where the coating had melted. Steve grabbed the tape and with surprising deftness, considering the sparking shit show of a few moments ago, wrapped it around the bare spot until it was completely covered. Then he took the meter and held one of its probes to the end of the wire.

"Live. Wonder how this thing is powered?" he muttered. He took a bright yellow cap and tucked the bare end of the wire in it and twisted it. "There. Did that hurt at all?"

Bucky shook his head.

Steve repeated the process three more times. "That's all I can reach. I'm afraid to go any deeper… might nick actual skin or muscle."

Bucky let out his breath. Coughed a little, which hurt like hell. "S'alrigh'." He suddenly felt clammy and a little sick. Wasn't sure if it was physical or just from the idea of Steve hitting real flesh deep inside the arm.

"Is it any better?"

It wasn't, really, but Steve looked so damn worried that Bucky smiled and lied through his teeth. "Yeah. Thanks, pal."

Steve didn't look reassured. "Don't lie to me, Buck. You're sweaty and pale as snow."

Bucky shrugged his good shoulder. "Been better." He suddenly shook with a tremor. God, he just wanted to _sleep._ And breathe without pain.

Steve grabbed a pillow and then lifted both of Bucky's legs and slid it under his calves. Then he reached over Bucky to punch a button on the wall. There was a soft hiss as a panel opened. An oxygen mask dropped out.

"Steve, I don't nee—"

"Yes, you do. You're showing signs of shock. Or... something." He adjusted the elastic strap, slipped it over Bucky's head and positioned the mask over his mouth and nose. He brushed Bucky's hair off his face and pulled a few strands out from where they'd gotten trapped under the mask. "Breathe in and out, slow and deep as you can."

Bucky glared, but he took a few deep breaths. Then he coughed again. The knifing pain grew worse. A lot worse. A whole lot worse.

"Buck?"

"Feels like… like a knife… in my ribs… can't get...air..."

"A knife? Oh no..." He suddenly laid his ear against Bucky's left chest, listened intently, then moved to his right side and listened, then back again. "Damn it, I can't hear any breath sounds on the left."

"Tha' doesn' s-soun' good…"

Steve pressed two fingers against Bucky's carotid. "It's not. Pretty sure you have a collapsed lung and pretty sure it's getting worse." He leaped to his feet and starting yanking drawers open. "Where is it… where is it… damn it, where… there!" He came running back with a red pouch that had "Pneumothorax" written on it in bold white letters.

"Whu' …" Bucky didn't have the air to finish his question.

"It's a special needle, designed to let out air that's not where it should be." He ripped open the pack and pulled out a lot of paper-wrapped things, and something that looked like a thick pen. Steve twisted it open and Bucky saw that it wasn't a pen at all but a case that held, among other things he didn't recognize, a needle. A really _long,_ really _thick_ needle.

Bucky's heart lurched and then started beating faster. "Umm… you're not… uh…"

Steve got that "about to jump across a flaming chasm" look on his face. "Yeah, Buck. Sorry."

"You…not a doctor…"

"Nope." He started ripping open packets and pulling on latex gloves.

 _Oh god._

Bucky had no air left for words, so he tried to question Steve with his eyes alone, but Steve was too busy doing… whatever he was doing… to see it.

Steve got the knife back out and without any hesitation cut completely through Bucky's jacket and shirt. He ran his hands along Bucky's left side, even lifting him slightly to feel under his back. "Good, no open wound at least. Didn't think there was, but had to check." He lowered Bucky back down. "Okay, here's what's gonna happen…"

Bucky shook his head.

"You don't want me to do anything or just don't want to know?"

Bucky held up two fingers.

"Okay. I won't tell you. Just close your eyes and try to breathe."

Bucky followed orders. Or tried to. Closing his eyes was easy; breathing, not so much. He felt part of himself disengage, almost like he was floating free from the cage of his body. It happened that way, usually. He'd get hurt on a mission, drag himself in barely breathing, and then just… go somewhere else while the doctors did what they had to do.

Pain was temporary, after all.

He felt Steve's hand briefly press his forehead, then there was a lot of tugging and cutting and jostling as Steve completely stripped away his jacket and shirt. He felt Steve rub something cold and wet over the skin on his chest. His nose stung from the sharp bite of isopropyl alcohol.

Steve started a running monologue under his breath. "Okay, down from the midclavicular line…" Bucky felt Steve's fingers walk down his skin from his collarbone. "Second intercostal space...ah shit, that's metal… does it extend under the..? Please please please let it not be covering the spot where... " Steve pressed here and there below the edge of the metal arm's socket, where metal and flesh met. "Okay…okay...it's good. I can get to the second space between the ribs… God, I wish Sam was here to do this… okay, Buck, doing it _now._ "

Bucky felt a new stabbing sensation. If he'd had the breath he might have screamed. Lightning flashed in his skull and the plane faded away and all he could see was Zola and saws and needles...

He swung a wild punch.

A strong hand grabbed his fist. "Bucky, no! I know it hurts like hell, buddy, but you gotta stay still."

He blinked. Stared at Steve and let his arm drop.

Steve immediately went back to work, his face contorted with a mix of fear and concentration. "Okay okay okay… oh god, that's the rib… sorry, sorry…"

Bucky felt metal scrape on bone and again the world faded back into Zola and scientists and _let me go I don't wanna be here let me go_ , but then Steve shouted, "Got it… yes! There's air coming out."

And suddenly Bucky could breathe a little. Zola faded away as panic ebbed. Steve fiddled around some more and it hurt _damn it it hurts it hurts it hurts_ but more air trickled into his chest, and finally he took a deeper gasping breath and most of the massive weight on his chest disappeared. He opened his eyes and tried to thank Steve with only his gaze. He was too busy catching up on lost oxygen to say anything.

Steve ran a shaky hand through his hair. "Better?"

Bucky nodded.

"Thank God." He pulled off the latex gloves and crumpled all the wrappers into a ball and launched it toward the back of the plane. Then he leaned down and pressed his ear against Bucky's chest. His hair tickled Bucky's chin. "Oh yeah. I can hear breath sounds."

Bucky gave Steve's head a clumsy pat.

Steve straightened up and grabbed Bucky's hand. Gave it a quick squeeze. His smile wobbled a little. "I pray to God I never have to do that again. Sam does not get paid enough for this kind of stuff." He lowered Bucky's hand back to his side and fell quiet as he taped everything in place with hands that shook a little. He punched another button on the wall and something inside it started to quietly hum. Steve took the length of plastic tubing that was attached to Bucky's chest and inserted over a nozzle on the wall. Bucky winced as he felt another sharp pain in his chest, but along with the pain came the feeling of each breath coming a little easier.

Bucky lightly touched the tube and raised his eyebrows while glancing up at the wall.

"I don't know what you call all of it, Buck. I just know it's designed to pull the air out from between your lung and chest wall. Does it seem to be working?"

Bucky nodded.

"Good. This changes our travel plans. Sam assured me this set up is as good as any hospital's, but I'm no doctor and he's not here to help. I want to get you to Wakanda and proper care sooner rather than later." He checked Bucky's pulse and listened to his breathing one more time, then took a long look at his face and his eyes. "I'd also like to start you on an IV. Just some fluids. Maybe a little painkiller if you think it would work on you."

Bucky finally felt caught up on air enough for actual conversation. He pulled the mask off. "Since when do you know your way around all these needles?"

Steve put the mask back in place. "Keep that on. There's a lot of things I know my way around these days. Women. Electricity. Even needles."

Bucky kept the mask mostly in place, but he lifted it off his chin. "But how'd you… know…" He waved at his chest. "You get your doctorate while I was hiding out?"

"Keep. That. On. And no, I'm not a doctor." He lifted up a laminated card and the red pouch. "It's all Sam. He put together emergency kits for us, complete with step-by-step instructions. He was pararescue with the Army. He impressed upon me the need for all the Avengers to have more than just minimal first aid skills. I agreed, so Sam taught us all the basics of being a first responder, plus some more advanced skills to some of us, like me and Nat. We can both stitch up a wound, do CPR, start an IV… all the basic stuff to keep a person alive until the real medical folks arrive. Including treating what looks like a pretty bad collapsed lung."

Bucky kept the mask on this time. "So that's why you kept muttering his name."

"Yeah, I was kinda cursing him for not being here. Not really fair since he can't help it."

"Sam's a good guy."

"He is."

"Annoying as hell, though."

Steve laughed. "Deep down, he likes you."

Bucky would have snorted but that would take too much energy.

"So, the IV. You up for one more needle stick?"

He'd endure a dozen more sticks if it meant painkillers were on the way. He took three more deep breaths, then held his right arm up. "Do your worst."

"Considering the last time I did this it took four tries to get the vein, I might be doing just that." He reached into another cabinet and pulled out plastic bag of saline solution and another red pouch. This one had "IV STARTER KIT" printed on it. He unzipped it and laid out plastic tubing, latex gloves, a starter needle, tape and various other things Bucky vaguely recognized. He ripped several lengths of tape and stuck them on the edge of the table. He reached across Bucky and started to pull his arm toward him but must have thought better of it and simply leaned over Bucky instead. Bucky had a close view of the white star on Steve's uniform. It was smudged with blood…

Steve tapped against the back of his hand, pulled Bucky's thoughts from dark places. "Got a favorite vein?"

"A favorite vein? What the hell, Steve. No, I do not have a favorite vein."

Steve straightened back up and Bucky's view of the star was replaced with a view of Rogers' stupid grin. He was enjoying this far too much. Bucky scowled.

All that did was make Steve grin wider. "Okay then. Clench your fist and relax it a few times." He demonstrated, and while Bucky worked on that scintillating task, he stretched yet another pair of latex gloves on his own hands. He grabbed a length of blue rubbery cord. "Okay, you can stop."

"Killjoy," Bucky grumbled. "Most fun I've had all day."

Steve laughed as he carefully tied it around Bucky's forearm and then went back to tapping his hand. After a moment of careful looking, he nodded, grabbed an alcohol wipe packet and tore it open. "You know, most of the time, SHIELD or civilian or even military medics show up before we're finished fighting, but sometimes they don't. It's funny how surprised people are when after a battle we start patching them up for the paramedics. Usually don't start IV's, though. Not unless Sam has some with him. He has a pack, part of the wing suit, where there's a few kits. Usually not enough, though, so we save 'em for the worst injured." He ripped open the needle packet and held it above Bucky's hand. "Okay. You ready?"

Bucky shut his eyes. He was pretty much done with Steve looming over him with a needle, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Steve was doing his best to take care of him, after all.

" _C'mon, Steve, it ain't like I_ like _making you swallow this crappy-tasting medicine, but somebody's gotta take care of you when you're sick." He almost added, "since your ma's gone now," but bit it back just in time. Reminding Steve of his ma's death wouldn't help the situation._

 _Steve gave him a mulish look. "It hurts my throat." He clamped his lips together and turned his head away…_

Bucky sighed a little. Funny how the tables had turned. He would _not_ be as stubborn to Steve as Steve was to him back in the day, so he nodded. He felt a stick, then a pinch. Heard tape ripped off the table and felt it press against his skin. He opened his eyes just as Steve hooked up the tube leading to a bag of saline solution. "That it?"

"That's it. I have no idea what the good doctors in Wakanda will do, but I'm done stabbing you, I promise." Steve hung the bag up on a hook on the side of the plane.

"You're a good nurse, Steve," Bucky murmured. "Just like your ma."

Steve answered with a noncommittal grunt. He pulled a medicine vial out of yet another drawer… _so many drawers in this plane…_ and read the contents. He frowned, thinking, then nodded his head. "Okay. I'm going to take a chance. Says here not to give this to anyone with a head injury. You might have a little bit of a concussion, but given it's been several hours and you seem alert enough, I'm going to give it to you. Don't want pain wearing you down so much you can't start healing."

"I'll heal, with or without it."

Steve gave him a sorrowful look, but went on. "This is stuff that Tony and Bruce Banner created for me, so it's plenty strong. You have any idea how you might react to this? Painkillers work on you?"

"No idea. HYDRA didn't exactly care about pain control."

Steve gave him another stricken look, then set his jaw. "Well, you're no longer theirs, thank God, so we're gonna try to get rid of some of the pain. You're nearly as big as I am, but I'm going to give you half my own dose, see what happens. I'd start higher, but I don't want to kill you."

 _Might not be the worst thing..._

No way he could say that to Steve, so he just said, "That'd be kinda disappointing, after all you've done to keep me alive to this point."

A ghost of a grin, then Steve concentrated on filling a syringe. He swabbed off the medicine port on the IV tubing with an alcohol wipe, then slowly pushed the painkiller in. Bucky almost immediately felt a wave of warm drowsiness. Muscles he hadn't realized were stretched tighter than drum heads relaxed. "Thass a'ight," he mumbled.

Steve might have replied but Bucky couldn't be bothered to sort out the actual words. Steve gave his leg a little shake. "Hey."

"Hmm?"

"I said, is it helping?"

Bucky grunted. Then smiled.

He heard a soft laugh, felt a hand press his forehead, then he faded into wonderfully painless sleep.

 _tbc…_

 _-o0o-_

 _Quick summary for those of you who skipped the chapter because of medical details: Bucky's ribs were broken in the fight, probably by Tony's blast or possibly by the tussle with T'Challa in chapter one. He moved wrong as he was sitting in the co-pilot's seat, then when he stood up, he stumbled and tried to catch himself with the arm that is no longer there and fell against a bulkhead, thus battering the ribs further, leading to a punctured lung. Steve treated it*, because I utterly reject the headcanon that Steve is incompetent. See more on that below.  
_

 _*google thoracostomy kit if you want to see what he used; they're staples in battlefield EMS equipment), or read the chapter if you're game._

 _A few other things: Nothing really in canon that says that Steve knows his way around EMS type stuff, but he's a sharp guy, been hanging around Sam for a couple of years, and so…headcanon formed. (Also basing that on how much medical techniques that I, a complete non-professional, had to learn when taking care of my mother's home dialysis and caring for both parents through end-of-life home hospice care. You can learn a lot when needs must.) Also consider this me striking a blow against the "Incompetent Except For Bashing Things With The Shield" Steve fanon/canon. Giving Steve nursing skills is also a nod to his mother. Apple doesn't fall far from the tree (and sometimes even falls into a pie that hungry little pre-serum Steve steals from a neighbor's windowsill…)_

 _Big thanks to CaptainBlitzy for the medical assist as I sorted out the likely outcome of Bucky's visible injuries. Any errors are solely my own, not hers. As stated, I'm not a medical professional, so DON'T TRY THIS STUFF AT HOME. Despite the desire for realism, dramatic license and hand-wavy comics medicine liberally applied._

 _I have no idea what the range of a quinjet is. More hand-wavy comics applied in order to get them to Wakanda without needing to refuel._

 _IR: Infrared_

 _RF: Radio frequency_

 _EMP: Electromagnetic Pulse_

 _MRE: Meals Ready To Eat_


	4. Chapter 4

" _Солдат отчетности… Травмы серьезные, но улучшение…"_

"Bucky?"

" _Моя миссия…"_

"Hey, easy… there's no mission."

" _ты моя миссия…"_

A hand held down his arm. "No no no… I'm not your mission, Buck. I'm Steve. Your friend. You're James Buchanan Barnes, remember? James. Buchanan. Barnes. Your name is Bucky."

 _No… no mission? What…_

He wanted to ask it aloud, but he tightened his lips, bit back all his questions. If he didn't, he would be punished… he would be… would…

"Shh, Bucky. You're all right. It's me, Steve. I'm your friend, and your name is Bucky Barnes. You're safe, in the quinjet. Remember?"

Bucky let out a soft moan. Cringed as he waited for a jolt of pain from a slap or worse…

Instead, he felt a gentle hand on his head. He frowned, then tried to sort out where he was. He felt a steady vibration below him. Heard a droning mechanical roar. Engines. Faint smell of oil and leather and plastic. Felt the press of a mask on his face.

 _Were they prepping him for a mission?_

He opened his eyes. Saw not the black of his normal mask but the clear plastic of an oxygen mask. Beyond it, in the dim light, he saw a gray wall to his right that curved inward as it went up. To his left floated the pale oval of a face. He blinked three times before the oval developed a nose. Mouth. Eyes full of worry. Familiar eyes, familiar worry. He relaxed. "Steve." He winced. His voice sounded like cheap tin scraping across gravel.

Steve let go of his wrist. "God, Bucky… you had me scared there for a minute."

He cleared his throat. "Did I try to…"

"Nah, you didn't do anything. Just groaned a lot and started talking in Russian in a spooky monotone."

He grimaced. Russian? What had he... Oh.

 _"Soldier ... reporting serious injuries, but improving…"_

 _"My mission…"_

 _"You're my mission…"_

Shit.

No wonder Steve looked about ready to crap his pants. Bucky licked his dry lips. "Sorry."

"No, hey, don't apologize. It's fine. Just the pain medicine making you confused. How do you feel?"

 _"Mission report."_ _Pierce's command was unyielding. "Mission report. Now."_

Bucky's heart stuttered, then started pounding hard. He screwed his eyes shut and struggled for calm.

"Buck? It's okay." Steve's voice was gentle, soothing. "You're safe."

 _Steve won't punish me. Steve won't punish me._

 _Breathe._

 _Focus._

He opened his eyes. Stared at Steve long enough to assure himself that Pierce wasn't there, that the voice was nothing but an ugly echo in his head.

"Hey, pal, you still with me?"

He went for brutal honesty because why not. "Feel like I got run over by the biggest tank HYDRA owns. How long I been out?"

Steve sighed. "Only about two hours. I guess you burn through meds as fast as I do. Your color's better, at least. No more blue lips."

"Go me." He raised his head so he could look down at this chest. Tube was still there. He dropped his head back. "Breathin' better." He reached toward the oxygen mask.

"Don't mess with it."

Bucky adjusted it minutely, even though it didn't need it, and smirked.

Steve rolled his eyes and checked the tape on both the chest tube and the IV.

"You get any rest?" Bucky asked.

"Little bit. Nice thing about autopilot and proximity warnings, the plane doesn't really need me to be conscious. I took a nap."

Bucky studied his friend's face. "Got dark circles under your eyes."

"You should see yours. They're almost as dark as when you had all that black crap around your eyes when I first saw you on the roof outside my apartment."

"Wasn't _crap_. Was camouflage."

Steve made a _pfff_ noise. "Yeah, well, call it what you want, but it looked ridiculous."

Bucky rubbed his eye. The IV tugged on the back of his hand. "Guess so. Hid my face, though."

"That's true. The only part of you I could really make out was the gleam of your eyes and your metal arm."

The metal arm that still burned and ached, even if it wasn't there. But Steve's repairs seemed to be holding—the arm wasn't tasering him anymore, at least. He wondered if he'd get another one with even a tenth the tech that one had. Probably not. He'd seen prosthetic limbs… all had a certain level of functionality, but a lot of them were simply shaped like an arm with a fake hand on the end that opened and closed like a lobster claw. He wondered who might have the capability of matching what HYDRA had created. Tony Stark, probably, but that ship had pretty much sailed.

"Buck? You all right?"

"Yeah. Just thinking about the arm. Wondering how hard it will be to get used to a regular prosthetic." He dredged up a smile. "Be like a real person, though, right? Just another vet with a fake limb and rampaging PTSD. Fit right in." He tried not to think about how vulnerable he'd feel in a fight, without his metal arm. He sure as hell had felt defenseless and exposed crumpled on the ground at Tony's feet.

Steve looked like he was about to cry.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to sound bitter." He wasn't bitter, exactly. A little confused, a little lost … hell, a lot confused. A lot lost. And he guessed a little bitter, too. HYDRA stole so much and now what little they'd given back was gone...

After the silence stretched into awkwardness, Steve said, "I bet the people in Wakanda can fix you up."

"Yeah, sure," Bucky agreed with a bravado that he knew neither of them believed for one second. Time to change the subject. "You, um, you ever been there? Wakanda?"

"No. I knew it was where vibranium came from, but that's about all I knew until King T'Chaka was killed. It's a pretty reclusive nation."

"Hate that T'Challa lost his father."

"Yeah."

More silence. Sitting there in the dim light, staring into space, Steve looked almost as lost as Bucky. "Steve?"

He blinked. "What?"

"Did you really give up the shield? For good? "

Steve studied his palms, rubbing his left with his thumb in a motion Bucky recognized from way back when they were kids. "No? Maybe? I don't know. All I know right now is that I can't be a part of anything Ross has cooked up. I don't trust him about the Accords, and I don't trust him when it comes to you."

"He knows I'm a threat," Bucky said, then added quietly, "He's right."

A muscle along Steve's jaw bunched. "You are a citizen of the United States. A member of the armed forces. You're owed every right under the Constitution and under Army regulations, yet he denied you even the most basic due process. He put out a shoot-to-kill order on you before we knew for certain you were culpable. Then when I brought you in alive, he denied you legal counsel. _Laughed_ when I insisted on it. And that's only the tip of the iceberg."

"Maybe..."

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe I forfeited those rights. All I've done..."

Steve shook his head. "No." He lunged to his feet and started pacing. "No. You were a prisoner of war. Brainwashed, tortured. No jury or tribunal in the land would convict you."

Stupid, blind optimism. No way in hell he didn't deserve to have the book thrown at him, be locked away for life or maybe better yet, executed so the world would be forever safe from him. Not that Steve would ever accept that. He'd fight it every inch of the way. Bucky stifled the surge of hope the thought gave him. He didn't deserve hope. "What are you going to do, Steve?"

"I'm going to get you to Wakanda," Steve said firmly. "Find the rest of the team, make sure they're safe. Then...I don't know, other than I'm not abandoning you to the likes of Ross and Stark."

"I meant about the shield. About being Captain America."

"You just let me worry about Captain America, all right?"

Like hell he would. He had a feeling, with Steve's current mindset, they'd end up hiding in the jungle reading Tarzan books for the rest of their lives while HYDRA, or someone even worse, took over and ruined everything. He did not escape seventy years of torture for that. "The world needs you, Steve. It doesn't need Bucky Barnes, and it sure as hell doesn't need the Winter Soldier. It needs Captain America. It needs _you_."

Steve's pacing stopped. His eyes were stormy. "And what about what _you_ need? What _I_ need?"

Bucky hardened his tone. "Doesn't matter what you think I need. Don't give it up for me, Steve. I ain't the guy you knew."

"No? Then who the hell have I been joking and laughing with all this time about newspapers in my shoes and stealing pies? Who was the guy who fought alongside me at the airport? Sure seemed like Bucky Barnes to me. Are you really going to try to tell me that guy isn't my best friend, that he's somebody else now? I _know_ you, Buck, and you're still _you._ You're gonna know that yourself again, too, I promise you."

Bucky didn't answer. Couldn't find words that wouldn't pile on more pain, that wouldn't douse the hopeful light in Steve's eyes, even though it damned well needed dousing, for Steve's own sake.

 _But Steve does make me feel like I might be me again. Someday._

No. That was selfishness talking. He would bring Steve down. Hell, he _was_ bringing Steve down, had been from the moment he came back to his apartment and found him standing in his kitchen. Steve didn't deserve that. Steve didn't deserve a single minute of this entire shit storm. Bucky set his jaw, even though he felt something fall inside him and keep on falling. "You can't give up the shield. I'm not worth all this."

Steve looked ready to either cry or punch a hole through the fuselage of the quinjet, Bucky couldn't really tell. But he took a deep breath and opened his fists. He ran a hand through his hair. "Look. You're hurting, we're both exhausted, and the future is so murky who knows what'll happen. We don't need to hash this out right now." He came over and again poked at the tape surrounding the needle in Bucky's chest.

Bucky reached up and grabbed his wrist. "Okay, but whatever happens," he said, his voice hoarse, "thank you for everything you've done so far."

Steve stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. His throat worked, but his voice was steady. "To the end of the line, whenever and wherever it happens."

Bucky nodded. He took a careful breath. "Steve, I've just got one more really important question."

"Bucky, I said let's not—"

"This plane have a latrine? I _really_ gotta go."

Steve glared at him.

Bucky shrugged. "You're the one who gave me the IV. What'd you think would happen?"

Steve gave him a disgusted look, then turned and started digging in a drawer. Bucky wasn't sure, but he thought he heard Steve mutter, "Asshole," under his breath.

He started to chuckle, until Steve turned around holding a bedpan and plastic urinal bottle. His laughter melted away. "Shit."

"Bedpan it is, then." Steve grinned and Bucky was suddenly reminded of 1934 and finding a dead fish in his bed and Steve cackling in the doorway.

Bucky sighed. Then he had a horrible thought. "Wilson is _never_ to know about this."

Steve's smile merely widened.

 _Damn it._

tbc...

-o0o-

 _A/N: Russian translation via google. I'm crossing my fingers that it's at least in the same neighborhood as accurate._


	5. Chapter 5

_Warning: contains some more mild medical details that may be squirm inducing._

-o0o-

The bedpan unpleasantness behind him, Bucky fell into a light sleep, at least until a shrieking alarm from the cockpit jerked him awake. "Whazzit?" he mumbled as he resettled the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. Steve jumped up from the seat beside him and headed to the cockpit. Bucky blinked a few times while he waited for his heart to recover and for all the flinch-induced pain to simmer down. His chest, ribs, back and head all seemed in competition for which would kill him first.

"Not sure," Steve called back as he dropped into the pilot's seat. Bucky craned his neck back far enough to get an upside-down view of the back of the top of Steve's head. He had one hand buried in his hair and Bucky guessed the other was frantically jabbing at buttons.

Not exactly reassuring. Bucky straightened back around, wondering how painful sitting up would be and if the chest tube was long enough to let him reach the cockpit so he could lend a hand. The O2 mask got knocked askew again, so he pulled it off completely. "Thought you knew how to fly this thing?"

"I do. I just don't know all the … oh, wait… yeah, that's it." The strident electronic wail stopped. Bucky's head immediately felt six pounds lighter. "It was the weather radar. There's a pretty big storm ahead, right in the flight path. Gonna have to go around it."

"Know how to do that?"

"Yep. Turn off the autopilot and fly the plane around the storm."

"Can you turn it back on?" Bucky imagined them flying in circles over Africa, hopelessly lost, running out of fuel and then crashing in the middle of the Sahara and dying of thirst.

"Yep. And worse comes to worst, I have Wakanda's coordinates. I can get us there without the autopilot if I have to."

Bucky relaxed a little. Then the plane vibrated, as if it were rolling over logs, and death by drowning in the ocean replaced the specter of dying of thirst in the desert. "Steve?" Damn, that came out a lot more scared than he intended.

"It's okay. Just some turbulence kicked up by that storm. Might get even more bumpy, though. You want some pain meds, knock you out for the worst of it?"

It was tempting, but Bucky wanted to do some thinking, and he needed a clear head for that, or as clear a head as he could get, considering the state of his brain. Besides, Steve might need his help. "Nuh uh," he grunted.

"You sure? Once I take this off autopilot, I can't come back there until we're past the storm."

Bucky frowned. "Load a syringe. Put it somewhere I can reach."

Steve got up out of the seat and came back. "You always did come up with good ideas."

"And you usually ignored 'em, 'cuz you're an idiot."

Steve smiled but said nothing for a moment as he measured out the painkiller dose into the syringe. He lifted the filled syringe and flicked it gently with his finger. "Funny, I don't remember ever being that much of an idiot. Must be a false memory HYDRA put in your head."

Bucky smiled faintly. "Whatever you say, pal," he murmured.

Steve frowned. He reached out and laid his palm against Bucky's forehead, then put the back of his hand against Bucky's cheek.

" _Ma, I'm fine, stop it."_

" _Bucky, dear, I'm sorry, but you have a fever. No playing with Steve today."_

" _Aw, Ma, I ain't sick…"_

He rolled his head away from Steve's hand. "I'm not sick, Steve."

"Just checking. You look a little pale."

He felt suddenly irritated. "Getting your arm shot off kinda makes you feel a little pale, Rogers."

Steve nodded and made a sympathetic sound, then he fell silent as he fished the roll of medical tape out of the drawer. He pulled a strip off the roll and put it on the barrel of the syringe. He then attached it to the wall where Bucky could easily reach it with his right hand. He also taped a foil packet that was marked 'alcohol wipe' beside it.

"Sorry," Bucky said quietly. "Didn't mean to snap your head off."

"Don't worry about it. Been a long day."

Bucky nodded. He was feeling all the aches and pains again. Still no electric zaps, but his shoulder and back muscles throbbed. The sedative was very tempting.

"You sure you can manage this with just one hand?"

"Maybe. I can always use my teeth. And if I can't.…" He shrugged. God knows he had learned how to ignore pain.

The plane shuddered again. Steve grabbed at the wall to stay upright. "Buck, one more thing. If you want. I mean, I won't make you and you don't have to, but…" He fumbled to a stop.

"What?"

"Well, it's liable to get rougher than this at times. There are straps, I mean they're basically just seatbelts. I could—"

"No."

Steve nodded. "I understand. I'll try to go easy." He gave Bucky's shoulder a pat, then went back to the cockpit. "Oh, and put the O2 mask back on!" he called. A moment later, Bucky felt the plane dip slightly, then tilt into a right-hand banking maneuver. He grabbed the side of his bed, but it leveled out before he came anywhere close to falling off his perch.

He didn't put the mask on.

Since Steve had the plane more or less under control, time to take inventory of his aches and pains. He took a deep breath, the deepest one yet. His lung was better. Ribs still hurt like the dickens, though. He looked at the catheter or whatever it was called sticking into his chest, then followed the plastic tube as it traveled over to the machine on the wall. What happened when the lung was fully inflated? Would the thing keep sucking at it until it pulled his lung completely out?

Gross.

He swallowed. Maybe Steve should take the tube out now, before anything happened. But he couldn't because he had to fly the plane. Bucky would just have to trust that the machine wouldn't do anything awful.

Trust a machine. Yeah, because that always works out.

He took a careful breath and then slowly sat up. The machine beeped.

"Bucky? You okay back there?"

"Yeah, just… tryin' to sit up for a minute."

"What beeped?"

"Chest tube thing."

"Hang on."

Damn it. He hadn't meant for Steve to come back. "You gotta fly the plane. I'm fine."

But Steve was already by his bed, looking at the machine. "I put it back on autopilot. Won't hurt for a few minutes."

"Will that thing know when my lung is re-inflated?"

"Is that what you're worried about?"

He sheepishly stayed silent.

"It'll be fine. Sam told me it's a fairly slow process, and that it takes about four days for a normal person's lung to re-inflate and stay re-inflated. So for me, it'd probably be one day before I could unplug it, and for you… maybe one or two days? Either way, we'll be in Wakanda before then, so lay back down and stop worrying about it."

"But what if…"

"Okay, I'll show you something else, even though I can't explain how it all works." He flipped open a door below the suction machine. It held a pair of canisters that the chest line went into. One of them held more liquid than the other. Bubbles slowly formed, floated upward and popped. "See that? That means it's still pulling air out. I guess gravity is involved somehow and a pump and…. I don't really understand it all, but Sam said the Stark tech includes a monitor so the thing can self-regulate and stop when it's done. Which won't be before we get to Wakanda." He shut the door. "That help?"

"I guess."

"Something else wrong? Anything else hurt?"

He grunted a negative and stretched back out again. Steve put the O2 mask back over his face, gave him a reassuring smile, then hurried back to the cockpit.

Bucky felt stupid, but who knew the damn machine would betray him by beeping.

He did at least feel better that he didn't have to worry that the machine would suck all his insides out. But he didn't like being tethered to the side of the plane until the Wakandan doctors took a look at him. He grimaced. He wasn't especially comfortable around doctors, for obvious reasons, but hopefully he wouldn't lose himself and go berserk and kill any of them. If T'Challa trusted them, he could too, surely. He couldn't imagine HYDRA getting any kind of toehold in Wakanda, but then again, they'd been able to insert key personnel in a lot of places that purported to be impenetrable. If one of the doctors was HYDRA…

Best not to think about it.

He wondered what kind of reception they'd get, assuming no one was secretly a HYDRA agent or a Ross lackey. If T'Challa's message got through, would they trust their new king enough to allow them to land? Or would the end of the line be a ball of fire above the Wakandan border after diligent border patrol jets shot their missiles at them?

 _Relax, Barnes. Don't imagine worst case scenarios as likely outcomes. That way leads to madness._

He was unstable enough without courting actual madness, so he forced his thoughts in a different direction, toward the Wakandan people themselves, the ones on the ground who weren't flying fighter jets that could shoot them out of the sky. Were they friendly? Or were they as reserved as their reclusive reputation might suggest? T'Challa was certainly friendly enough, once he had discovered the truth. Bucky liked the warm light in the man's eyes. He seemed like someone who might smile easily under difference circumstances. That had to be a good sign, right?

If T'Challa was any example, they would at the very least see him as a human, even if Bucky and probably everyone else besides Steve had trouble seeing him that way. He remembered T'Challa's words:

" _Perhaps it is a far better vengeance to help right the wrongs that have been done to you…"_

Nice sentiment, but could T'Challa really do that? Were there really doctors in his country that could remove whatever was still in his brain that triggered the Soldier? He had sounded confident, but Bucky was a little afraid to hope. What would they do? Cut into his brain? Or just ask him for the trigger words? If they couldn't find the red notebook, could he trust his mind enough to say them or write them without triggering himself?

"желание," he whispered, and shuddered as darkness immediately skated across his mind, like the shadow of a vulture on a field of snow…

 _Falling..._

 _Reaching..._

 _Screaming..._

" _Bucky!"_

 _Steve's anguished face swiftly disappearing._

 _I'm sorry…_

 _Smashing._

 _Hurting._

 _Cold._

 _...blood on the snow…_

 _...so cold..._

 _Hurts._

 _...shadows circling high overhead…_

 _...vultures…_

 _.. death… why am I not dead… how…_

 _Footsteps… boots…guns…_

 _..._

 _Zola's smug face…_

" _Sergeant Barnes…"_

"… _the procedure has already begun …"_

 _Oh god no…_

He gasped. Clenched his hair in his fist, felt the pain of the IV pulling against the back of his hand. Just a small pain. A pinch. But enough to focus on until he was fully back.

 _Breathe._

 _Focus._

Plane. Steve. Wakanda. Safety.

He was safe.

His breathing evened out finally, though he was drenched in a cold sweat. God. It'd been a while since that particular memory haunted him, the string of disjointed images that were always the first to emerge when the programming started to lose its grip. If just thinking about one word triggered a flashback, how could he hope to overcome someone shouting all of them at once?

Where the hell was that damn red notebook? They had to find it, show it to the doctors, then destroy it.

He took the mask off. "Hey," He cleared his throat and said a little louder, "Hey, Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"That, um… the notebook. The one that Zemo used."

"What about it."

"Where is it?"

Steve sighed. "Hopefully Sharon has it. If not, then I have to assume it's in an evidence locker somewhere."

Bucky's chest suddenly felt tight. "It needs to be destroyed."

"I know. Sharon's working on it." His voice turned grim. "We'll find it and we'll burn it."

Guess that was as good as he was going to get. He chewed his lip, staring at the ceiling. Sharon was a good operative. Smart, skilled, and apparently more than able to covertly obtain things like Steve's shield and Sam's wings. And evidently Steve's heart. He smiled a little, but it quickly faded as he remembered another thing that had gone missing. He was afraid to ask, but he needed to know. "Steve?"

"Yeah?" He didn't sound at all impatient, despite Bucky peppering him with questions like some kinda overly curious, snot-nosed kid.

"What about… my… my backpack?"

"Sharon's looking for that, too. Chances are the backpack and red notebook are together somewhere."

 _God, I hope she finds it_. The notebooks held his life, or what he knew of it. Good, bad, ugly and beautiful, it was all written down, so many thoughts, every returned memory. Some of it was lucid and clear, other parts little more than barely legible words scrawled across pages stained with tears and sometimes blood. But all of it was _his_. His mind. His reclamation of himself, the good and the bad alike. A written roadmap of what he was, what he is… what he might someday be.

He didn't like the thought of anyone looking at what he'd written, especially the vile memories wrung out during long, anguished nights, but perhaps through them the doctors in Wakanda could learn about him and see how much he had recovered on his own. Maybe if they read the notebooks, they wouldn't ask him as many questions. He didn't know what the doctors would do for him, but he imagined it would involve a lot of questions. He didn't want to answer questions.

" _How can I help you if you don't talk to me, James?"_

 _Glass cage,_ _unyielding clamps over both his shoulders, an electric shock pulsating through the arm at regular intervals to keep it disabled. Steve nowhere around. In front of him a small desk with a small man sitting behind it. Zemo. Asking too many damn questions in that soft voice, like he was just there to help… but the questions were making him feel invaded and inhuman._

 _And then he started speaking the Russian words…_

His stomach cramped up.

Questions never led to anything good. Never.

But… maybe if he knew the doctor really was trying to help him, he could do it. Steve would be there this time. And T'Challa. His allies, old and new.

He bit his lip.

"I can do it," he whispered at the ceiling.

"Buck, you say something?"

He blinked. Better save Steve the stress of watching his existential crisis. "Um, yeah… just wondering… how far we still have to go?"

"About 5 hours over the Atlantic, then 3 over land and we'll be there. And put the mask back on."

 _Damn it._

Bucky replaced the mask and took a deep breath. Eight hours, and he would start getting answers…

Or discover there were no answers at all.

 _tbc..._


	6. Chapter 6

They were less than thirty minutes out. Skirting the storm had added an hour to their flight time, but now they were almost there, and Bucky was scared to death.

To call what was roaring around in his stomach butterflies would be like calling pterodactyls songbirds. Steve had told him Dr. Erskine's serum made whatever was inside Steve bigger—bad became worse, good became great—so Bucky decided that if he truly had a variant of what Steve had, butterflies became swooping dinosaurs with razor sharp beaks and claws, all of which were currently busy shredding his innards.

He took a deep breath. He had pulled the oxygen mask off for good about four hours ago, and his glare had been sufficient to stop Steve from nagging him to put it back on. He was breathing just fine, but it didn't calm the pterodactyls.

"You okay back there?" Steve called over his shoulder.

 _No, Steve, I am not okay. Nothing about our lives is okay right now._ "Yeah, fine." He cringed. He was such a coward.

"It'll be all right, Buck."

Bucky didn't bother answering. He just glared at the tube anchoring him to the wall instead of allowing him the freedom to pace or sit in the seat beside Steve so he could _see._

The radio pinged softly, then a very polite but firm female voice said, "Inbound aircraft, this is Wakanda approach. We have spotted you on radar. Please confirm identity, location and intention."

"Shit, Steve, I thought we were on stealth?" Bucky hissed.

"Easy, Buck. T'Challa's instructions said to slow down and emerge from stealth as we approach Wakandan air space. It's fine. Now be quiet while I tell them who we are so they don't shoot us down."

Bucky shut up.

"Wakanda Tower, this is Double Dinosaur 1917," Steve said, sounding very professional to Bucky's ears. "We are approximately sixty miles west of Wakanda International at 2000 feet, inbound for landing."

"Confirm, Double Dinosaur 1917. We've been expecting you. Welcome and please turn to base heading 3-0 and maintain 1500 altitude until further instruction. Winds are 230 at 10-15, altimeter 32.1."

"Roger, Wakanda tower." He repeated all the information to verify, then added, "It's good to finally be here. Double Dinosaur 1917."

The radio fell silent. "Double Dinosaur? Seriously?" Bucky asked as he felt the plane slowly turn and descend to the new heading and altitude. He opened and closed his mouth several times to make his ears pop.

"That's what T'Challa's note in the flight plan said to call ourselves. I guess he has a sense of humor."

"So you know what all that stuff you just rattled off means?"

Steve chuckled. "I better."

Bucky suspected that the knowledge of what all that aviation babble meant was buried in his brain somewhere, but he couldn't find it, at least not without letting the Soldier out of his cage. The Winter Soldier could fly planes, might even be able to fake out a control tower. He grimaced. The Soldier definitely knew how to fly a helicopter and nosedive it into friends...

He ran his hand through his hair and then down his face. _That wasn't me._ _I don't do that now._ Ignoring the whisper of _yes, it was, and yes, you will again,_ he cleared his throat and asked, "So what now?"

"Turn the plane to the heading she just gave me and stay level until they tell me to make my descent."

"You said the altimeter was… what, 30 something? Are we going to fly that low?" The pterodactyls clawed harder.

"No, that's the adjustment I have to make because of Wakanda's elevation and… I don't know, barometric pressure or something. Clint explained it to me but it's kinda of complicated and I don't understand it except to know to punch the number into the altimeter setting."

"Huh. Interesting. Wish I could sit up there and watch you do all this stuff." Never hurt to ask….

"Better stay put. Hate for you to stumble again and undo all the healing you've done so far."

"For cryin' out loud, Steve, surely people with these things don't stay flat on their backs for four days!"

Steve looked over his shoulder. "How long is the tubing?"

Bucky slowly gathered up the line from where it hung over the edge of his bed and draped along the floor. It went all the way around the head of the bed before it plugged into the wall. He also checked the IV line. "Looks plenty long."

"Okay, but sit up very, very slowly and walk very, very carefully."

Bucky sat up, probably more quickly than Steve the Mother Hen would prefer, but nothing horrible happened, unless you counted his shoulders cramping into a thousand knots. He gasped a little and tried to stretch, but that set off the chest tube alarm. "Damn it," he sighed. He jabbed at the button to silence it. Too bad there wasn't an off button for muscle spasms.

At least breathing was fairly easy. Still had a lot of soreness from his broken ribs, but the stabbing pain in his lung was more of a dull ache now. The chest tube was still painful, though. He was ninety-percent positive he no longer needed it, but he still wasn't entirely confident yanking it out wouldn't tear out a piece of lung with it. God knew sometimes he relished the thought of death and being done with all the nonsense of his life, but not right now and not like _that_.

He jumped when Steve suddenly asked, "You gonna make it?"

"Yes, I'm going to make it," Bucky snapped. "You said go slow. I'm goin' slow." He lowered his voice. _"Ублюдок чрезмерно."_

"Bucky, I told you Nat taught me a lot of Russian. I'm _not_ an overprotective bastard."

Damn it. Bucky forgot how good Steve's hearing was. "Sorry." He shoved the blanket off, placed both feet on the floor, and, firmly grasping the edge of his bed, very, _very_ carefully stood. He swayed a little, but he caught himself. Hopefully Steve didn't notice.

"Buck!"

Of course Steve noticed, because he actually _was_ an overprotective bastard. "Steve, seriously. Calm down. I'm fine. Just got a little lightheaded for a second because I've been flat on my back for ten hours." He blinked a few times and once he was sure his head wasn't going to start spinning, he shuffled forward, not letting go of the bed until the handle on the wall behind the right seat was in reach. His knees _were_ a little shaky, not that he'd admit it to Captain Mother Hen. He switched grips, then eased himself down. He grinned at Steve. "Hi."

Steve laughed. "Hi, yourself. How's it feel, sitting up?"

"Like you shivved me in the chest ten hours ago, but other than that, fine."

"I did not shiv you in the chest. I saved your life."

"Potato, potahto. What am I lookin' at?" He peered out the window, but he didn't see anything except clouds. Disappointing.

"Wakanda is under there somewhere. Or so my headings tell me."

"You're not going to accidentally fly into a mountain or anything, are you?"

Steve glared at him. "It's only been fifteen seconds, but I'm already regretting letting you up here."

Bucky laughed. Damn, it felt good to be out of that bed. Even with the aching shoulder, the specter of HYDRA still lurking in his brain and pterodactyls plaguing his digestive tract, he felt remarkably better. He rubbed his stomach and decided part of the dinosaur infestation might be from hunger. "What kind of food do you think they'll give us?"

"Not really sure. There's lakes and rivers, so I guess fish? Maybe beef or lamb. Goat. I know a lot of the countries surrounding Wakanda eat beef and other herd animals, so maybe Wakandans do, too. This climate, they're sure to have coconuts, plantains, rice, lotta fruit like bananas and mangos. Who knows what kind of spices. Tanzania isn't far from here. I had some of their food once. It was a stew with all kinds of crazy spices. Good, but really different from the stuff we had growing up in Brooklyn."

"Seems like I remember everything had onions in it back in those days."

"And garlic, salt and pepper and that was about it. And it was all boiled. Food's a lot better now."

"Romanian food's pretty good. Lotta meat and fish. Polenta. Really good pastries and cake. Plenty of fruit. Before I washed up there, I wandered around the US for a while, in out of the way places, trying to stay off HYDRA's radar as much as I could. I ate in a lot of small town diners—just little hole-in-the-wall dives, some good, some awful. Biggest city I lived in was St. Louis. Had some really good Italian and German food there. Lotta Bosnian. Mexican. Had a Polish neighbor who'd have me over for sausage and sauerkraut or pierogis sometimes. Never had any Tanzanian, though."

"Probably just as well. The stew I had was seasoned with cloves. You would have hated it." He laughed. "Remember how I'd always drag you into helping Mrs. Franklin with her groceries so she'd give us each a stick of Clove chewing gum? Oh man, you hated that gum, but you were too polite to tell her and too good a friend to leave me to carry the heavy bags all by myself."

Bucky frowned. "I don't know if I remember cloves."

"Remember how your Grandma Barnes' closet smelled?"

Bucky's eyes widened. He stared out the window, but he wasn't seeing the clouds. He was seeing Mrs. Franklin, a frail old lady, spine and neck bent with age but a kind smile for the two little boys who lived in her building.

" _Here you go, boys, a treat for being such nice young men, carrying my groceries all the way up those steps."_

 _Steve eagerly took one. "Oh, thank you, Mrs. Franklin! You know how much we both love Clove gum!"_

 _Bucky wanted in the worst way to box Steve's ears, but he smiled at Mrs. Franklin as he took the red-wrapped stick of gum. She beamed down at them both, so as usual, he had no choice but to unwrap the gum and pop it in his mouth. Steve liked it, but it made Bucky's eyes water and his throat close up like he was about to gag. He forced himself_ not _to make a horrible face while he echoed Steve: "Thank you, Mrs. Franklin. Sure do love Clove gum." Then they had to run away as fast as possible so Steve could laugh his stupid head off while Bucky spat out the gum in the alley and stuck the chewed-up wad on the underside of the fire escape. Last count, there were seventeen gray clumps there…_

"You never really wanted to help her… you just wanted to watch me gag on that gum, you rat."

"I did too want to help! The sideshow of you gagging and retching was just a bonus." Steve didn't look even a little bit apologetic, because he was a rat.

Bucky pulled a face. "I hope there's no cloves in anything. I don't want to have to find a fire escape."

"I'll tell the chef you're allergic. Least I can do."

"You're a real pal, Rogers." His stomach growled. He wondered if the dried blueberries were within reach…

A soft ping from the radio startled Bucky. All thoughts of eating fled as the pterodactyls resumed their attack.

The same cultured voice said, "Double Dinosaur 1917, we have you clear to land on runway 328. Ceilings are 800, wind remains 230 at 10 to 15. There is no traffic in the area other than the courtesy escort at your nine o'clock. You may land at your discretion."

Bucky craned his neck to try to see around Steve. There was a very sleek fighter jet flying alongside them. "Steve."

"I see it. Let's take them at their word that he's a friendly." He waved out the side window. The jet waggled its wings. Bucky's pterodactyls weren't reassured.

Steve chuckled softly. "Breathe, Buck. They're friends. Very cautious friends, but still friends," he murmured, then he touched the transmit button on the radio headset. He repeated all the numbers, then added, "Estimate landing in eight minutes. Request medical assistance upon arrival."

"Of course. Again, welcome to Wakanda, Double Dinosaur 1917."

"See you on the ground. Double Dinosaur 1917." He flipped the transmit switch off.

Bucky waited a tick, to be sure the radio conversation was finished. "Why'd they really send an escort?"

"She said it was a courtesy. Maybe that's how they do things here. Quit worrying."

"Wait a minute. Why aren't you worried? Since when am I the one doing all the worrying?"

"You've always worried. You're worse than me."

Okay, he might have a point. Time to change the subject. "Why'd you call for medical assistance?"

"Because I know how to plug you into that chest tube thing but not how to unplug you. I want someone else to do that so I don't yank out something vital and have to watch you bleed out all over the floor."

Made sense. Bucky didn't want to bleed out all over the floor by his own hand; he sure didn't want to do it by Steve's. Steve would never forgive himself. "I just hope they don't show up with a stretcher and an ambulance. I can walk just fine."

Steve didn't reply.

"I can," Bucky repeated.

Still nothing.

"Well, you coulda at least asked them to bring me a shirt," Bucky finally muttered, then he watched out the window as Steve lined the plane up with a runway they still couldn't see. "How do you know where to land?"

"I point the plane in the heading she gave me, plus she said ceilings were 800 feet. We'll break through this cloud cover right about… now."

Sure enough, the clouds thinned and Bucky could see an airport in the distance, one of its runways pointing straight at them. It seemed very small and very narrow and too far down for how close it was getting. "Are you coming in low enough?"

"Yes, Bucky."

"It looks like we're coming in too high."

"We're not too high, Bucky."

"You sure?"

Steve gave him a sideways glare. "Did I not get us safely all the way to Siberia?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Did I not then get us off the ground and all the way here?"

"Yeah, bu—"

"I. Can. Land. The. Plane."

"Fine." Bucky pulled on the seat harness, but he couldn't buckle it one-handed. "Don't crash. I'm not buckled in."

A knot formed on Steve's jaw. "For the love of God, Bucky, we're not going to crash!"

"Okay."

"Okay."

Silence fell. Pterodactyls soared and swooped. Bucky bit his lip as he watched the runway grow larger and larger. He questioned the wisdom of coming up to the cockpit. He questioned the meaning of his life. He questioned so many things all at once that it made his head hurt, so he finally leaned his head back and shut his eyes.

Steve said, "Thought you needed to see," because Steve was an ornery little shit.

"Shut up and fly the damn plane."

"Technically, I'm landing the plane."

"Why are you like this?"

Steve's only reply was a chuckle that, even though Bucky couldn't see his face with his eyes closed, had _smirk_ written all over it.

"God help Wakanda," Bucky muttered. "They have no idea they're letting the world's biggest asshole cross their border."

"Correction: _assholes_. If I'm one, it's because of the undue influence of the one I grew up with."

Bucky slowly smiled. Couldn't really argue with that. "Damn right, pal. And don't you forget it."

"I won't if you won't."

Bucky opened his eyes and said with all seriousness, "If I do, be sure to remind me."

Steve must have gotten something in his eye, because he started blinking hard. He didn't look at Bucky, but reached over to squeeze the back of Bucky's neck. He gave his hair a tousle before returning his hand to the yoke. He coughed, then said, "Sure thing." If his voice wobbled a little, Bucky wasn't going to point it out. The lump in his own throat wouldn't let him.

Bucky swallowed hard, then watched in admiration and relief as Steve landed the plane smoothly on the runway.

They were in Wakanda at last.

 _tbc..._

-o0o-

Author's note: Any medical errors are all mine. Aviation techy stuff much fictionalized. Do not try talking to control towers at home, unless you're actually a pilot on final. If you are a pilot on final, for the love of God quit reading this fic and pay attention to landing the plane.


	7. Chapter 7

"Steve, wait."

Steve let his hand hover over the rear door release button for a moment, then he settled back in his seat. With the engines shut down, the silence pressed on them like a physical weight, broken only by the small popping noises the fuselage made as it expanded in the warmth of the late evening sunshine. "What's wrong?"

Bucky didn't answer right away. He looked out at the airport buildings and the jungle growth that pressed against the grassy verge on the far side of the runway. Pretty, all that green, with the mist rising above it. The view should have given him peace, but all he could think of were the dangers hiding in the shadows of the trees. Just like the dangers hidden in his mind. "I… if…"

Steve waited patiently for Bucky to sort out his words. Steve always had been patient with him. He remembered that from those horrible first days after Azzano, when Bucky was lost in his head, half the time still convinced everything was a dream and any moment he would wake up and be back on that table, strapped down, staring up at machines and needles and...

"Buck? You with me?"

Bucky rubbed his face. God, he needed to focus, say what he needed to say. But his mind kept drifting back in time. He knew why. He didn't _want_ to say what he had to say. "Just remembering Azzano. How you never got mad when I was all..." He twirled his fingers in the air by his temple.

"Well, yeah. You were sick, weak and out of your head from what they'd done to you. No way I could be mad at you. Except maybe when you refused to ride in the truck and I had to pull rank."

Bucky nodded. He pushed his hair out of his face. "I don't remember if I ever thanked you for getting me out of there."

"You did, but you didn't have to."

"Well, thank you again."

"You're welcome."

They sat in silence for a full minute. Steve didn't budge. Didn't fidget. He just waited.

Bucky stared at his hand. His only hand. "If HYDRA is here, somehow… or if… even if they aren't, but the doctors can't figure out… can't get HYDRA out of my head…" He formed a fist. The IV pinched, so he relaxed his fingers. "You have to… I want you to… stop me."

"I won't let you hurt anyone."

Bucky shut his eyes. Steve wasn't getting it. "No. I want you to _stop_ me." Then again, maybe he wasn't getting it because Bucky couldn't seem to say it.

He glanced at Steve. Saw realization turn his eyes bleak.

"Buck…"

Bucky dropped all the pretense. Pulled down the walls of humor and banter he had erected to hide the fact that _he was not all right_. He let Steve see the raw despair. "I can't—" He cleared his throat. "I can't keep on like this. Can't live with the thought that someone could come along and… and say words that make me lose myself. Turn me back into a monster. Can't wake up and realize I killed an innocent person and don't even fucking remember doing it. I won't live that way again." Tears burned his eyes. He blinked and they trailed down his face, making his unhealed cuts sting. He didn't bother wiping them away. He just watched Steve, waiting to see if he would agree to do the one thing Bucky might need the most.

Waited to see if Steve loved him enough to kill him.

"Damn it, Buck," Steve whispered. He stared out the window without speaking for the longest time. He finally took a slow, deep breath. He set his jaw and when he turned back to Bucky, he wasn't Steve anymore, but Captain America. "I understand. I might not be strong enough to carry it out, but I promise, if all else fails... _all else..._ I'll try to respect your wish. That's the best I can offer." He swallowed hard and suddenly he was just Steve again, the skinny kid from Brooklyn looking out through the eyes of a man three times his size. "I just pray to God it doesn't come to that."

Bucky nodded. That was good enough for now. Who knows, maybe Steve's prayers would be answered, somehow. Bucky knew he didn't merit any of God's mercy, but, as he had thought many times before, he also knew God would likely answer Steve just because Steve wanted it so badly and because Steve was a good man through and through. Not that Bucky deserved to benefit from anyone's prayers, but he'd have to sort that out with God later. Do penance. Make amends.

Steve interrupted his thoughts as he pointed out at the jungle. "Look out there, Bucky," he said, hopefulness and his own stubborn, serum-sized brand of optimism lightening his voice. "It may not look like it from here, where all we can see is a building and a runway and nothing else but jungle, but Wakanda is the most technologically advanced nation on Earth. Surely they'll be able to find a way to heal your mind, maybe even with Wanda's help. And if not, you can be damn sure we'll find something on some other planet."

Bucky had to laugh at that. He sniffed and swiped the tears off his cheeks with the heel of his hand. He winced when he rubbed a cut too hard. His hand came away smeared with blood. "Sure, Buck Rogers. Fly me to the moon."

Steve didn't laugh. "Ever hear of Thor?"

"He the guy with the hammer?"

"Yes."

"What's he gonna do, knock me upside the head?"

This time he did laugh. "Maybe that's all you need. Nat calls it cognitive re-calibration."

Bucky rolled his eyes, but he smiled a little as he watched some sort of long-legged white bird fly slowly across the runway into the trees. When it landed, a flock of smaller white birds exploded upward, circled and then resettled in the treetops. He felt marginally better. Joking with Steve took some of the terror away. He clenched his trembling right hand. _Some_ of the terror.

"So, you ready to meet your new best friends?" Steve asked.

"Only got one best friend, and that's you."

Steve grinned. "Aw. I'm touched." He climbed out of his seat, jabbing the door button as he did. "Come on. Let's open the doors, let the pros come in and unplug you from this plane."

As the rear door clanked and whirred, the pterodactyls in Bucky's stomach clawed their way into his throat. Bucky did his best to ignore them as he stood. He staggered a little and had to grab the back of the seat. Steve didn't say anything, just grabbed him around the waist and helped him to the bed. He sank onto it without looking out the open door to see who might be waiting. He didn't look at anything. He just kept his eyes shut until the plane stopped doing barrel rolls.

"You all right?" Steve asked softly.

He nodded, but also shrugged. He didn't know what he was, really. Mostly he felt like a used rag someone had wrung out and flung into the street. He cautiously opened one eye, and when all seemed still, opened the other. With both eyes open, everything still swung back and forth a little. He grimaced. "Guess everything's kinda pilin' up all of a sudden."

Steve gave him a wordless look of sympathy, then hurried out to meet whoever was there to greet them. Bucky lay back and listened as Steve introduced himself. There were murmured replies, Steve said something, and there were more replies. Bucky tried to listen, but the voices were too indistinct, just another layer of noise against the screeching birds and humming insects of the jungle. Steve talked for a long time, long enough that Bucky drifted off.

"Bucky," Steve said softly, jarring him from his light doze. Beside him stood two Wakandans, a man and a woman, with a wheeled gurney between them. Behind them, standing on the tarmac, was a phalanx of very tall, very fierce-looking women, each holding what looked like a bo-staff or a spear. All were lean, muscular. Dark skin, like T'Challa's. Some had long black hair pulled into a high ponytail, some had close-cropped black curls, others were shaved completely bald. All had some sort of tribal face paint or tattoos, each with a slightly different pattern. All wore long red capes with high collars trimmed in white fur. They seemed to be standing at parade rest, but Bucky still felt a flutter of fear as he met their implacable gazes.

 _It always ends in a fight…_

"Steve? What…" He struggled upright.

Steve immediately put a restraining hand on his good shoulder. "Shh, it's okay," he murmured, just as the two people with the gurney rushed forward with their own cries of protest.

"No, no, please be still," the woman said. She wore what looked like a dark gray flight suit, with a red cross sewn onto one sleeve."You are injured. We are here only to help you. Be at peace." She spoke with the same lilting accent as T'Challa.

Bucky looked at them, then back at the soldiers—because from their demeanor, that's what they had to be—and then at Steve.

"They're sort of an honor guard, I think," Steve said. "T'Challa's own. No one's going to hurt you or take you into custody."

The two medics nodded vigorously. "We are paramedics," the man said. He turned his shoulder so Bucky could see his red cross patch. "We wish only to get you to the hospital where your wounds can be treated."

Bucky licked his lips. Took a shaky breath. "Okay. Sorry."

He received respectful bows of the head from both paramedics. The woman stepped forward. "Sergeant Barnes, my name is Adaoma, and my partner is Mobo. Your friend, the Captain of America, has told us what happened, how he treated your collapsed lung. He is to be praised for his skills, for it sounds as though he saved your life."

Steve blushed as he crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders. _Just like when he was a kid. Can't take a compliment from a pretty woman for love nor money._ Bucky would have rolled his eyes—the punk _did_ save Bucky's life, no two ways about it—but he didn't think that would be appropriate. "Nice to meet you. You can just call me Bucky."

She bowed her head briefly while holding her closed fist over her heart. "To reveal one's true name to another is a great gift. I will hold it dear in my heart, Bucky. Thank you."

Bucky couldn't help raising his eyebrows. "Um, you're welcome. I'll, uh, keep your name close, too." He glanced at Steve but received only a tiny shrug.

"Bucky, if you would permit me," Adaoma said, "I would like to do a simple examination of you, before we disconnect the chest tube. I will take your pulse, check both of your eyes to be sure your pupils dilate and constrict as they should, and I will use this stethoscope"—she held it up—"to listen to your heart and especially your breathing. I will also put a cuff around your upper arm, to monitor your blood pressure. I will tell you before I do each one of these things, and you may stop me at any time. May I begin?"

Bucky nodded.

She proved true to her word. Twice Bucky had to ask her to stop when flashbacks of other medics, other procedures, made his breath catch and the pterodactyls soar, but Bucky tolerated all of it without attacking either paramedic, which made him feel much better about their chances of getting out of the plane without an actual fight. Adaoma and Mobo were the personification of gentle kindness, and if the fierce-eyed women watching from outside had any designs on arresting them, they probably would have done so by now.

Mobo stepped forward. "I will now switch your IV line to this bag. It contains only saline solution, no drugs." He held it up so Bucky could inspect the label.

"Yeah, I mean, yes, that's fine."

Mobo smiled and deftly switched the line from the empty bag to the full one. He hung it on an IV stand on one corner of the gurney.

"Sargent Barnes," Adaoma said, then smiled as she corrected herself, "I mean, Bucky. We are now ready to disconnect the chest tube from the wall unit, but to do that, I will need you to do this." She pinched her nose shut, closed her mouth and puffed out her cheeks. "Like you are blowing up a balloon. Can you do that?"

Mystified, Bucky nodded.

She let out a merry laugh. "I know, it looks silly, does it not? But it will help ensure no additional air goes where it shouldn't as I move the tube to the portable unit. On my count…" She put her hand on the wall port. "One, two, _three._ "

He pretended to blow up a balloon. Nothing much happened, that he could tell, other than his ears popped again. It seemed to satisfy her, for while he was blowing out his eardrums, she swiftly moved the tube from the wall to a gizmo hanging on the side of the gurney.

"Oh, well done, thank you," she said, with another kind smile. She seemed to have an endless supply of those. "Now, if you can, you may transfer yourself to our gurney. If you cannot, we will assist you, or perhaps the Captain of America can."

"Really, just call me Steve," Steve pleaded. Bucky wondered how many times he'd asked them to drop the Captain title. From his expression, more than a couple.

She graced him with yet another wide smile and repeated the gesture of her fist over her heart. "As you wish, Steve."

Steve nodded, returned the gesture, then turned to Bucky. "Waddya say? Okay on your own or do you want me to lift you?"

Bucky scowled at him. Damned if he'd let them see he was too weak to walk two lousy steps. "I'm fine." He stood up, ignored the black spots that bloomed in his vision and sat down on the gurney. He quickly laid back—he did _not_ collapse, no matter how it may have looked—and Mobo tossed a blanket over him. Then, with a few bumps and some squeaking wheels, he was down the ramp and squinting against the still-bright sky. As they passed the red-caped women, he was shocked to see each one bow while briefly leaning her staff toward him. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to salute in return or say thank you or something else entirely. By the time he decided to simply nod, they were already behind him. He glanced up at Mobo. "I hope I didn't offend anyone," he whispered. "Wasn't sure how to respond to that."

The man laughed. "No, you did not offend them. They are the Dora Milaje, the king's guard. The Adored Ones, from whom King T'Challa will choose a wife. They simply gave you the respect owed an injured warrior. You are not expected to reply in kind, unless of course someday you find yourself in their position, saluting another fallen warrior. For now, you are expected only to rest and to heal."

He glanced over at Steve, who raised his eyebrows in an "imagine that" expression. "New best friends," he murmured.

Bucky glanced at the two paramedics, then back at the warriors who were now following in a two-line formation. The one in the lead nodded once, breaking her fierce stoicism to give him the faintest of reassuring smiles. He smiled tentatively back.

Best friends? Probably not.

Safe hands? Definitely. The Adored Ones looked like they could shred their enemies into atoms without breaking a sweat. And thanks to T'Challa, they did not look upon him as an enemy.

He straightened around and let out a long sigh. Weariness settled on his bones like a heavy blanket, but the pterodactyls finally came to roost and went to sleep, just like those white birds in the jungle. Bucky shut his eyes and allowed himself to fully relax for the first time in... months? Years? A century? He wasn't sure how long, but it seemed like a long, long time. As they lifted his gurney into the waiting ambulance, he heard Adaoma start to hum a slow, peaceful song under her breath. She laid her hand on his forehead, and he faded gently to sleep.

 _tbc..._


	8. Chapter 8

_**A belated Thank you, bluetigress, for all your guest reviews… we definitely are of like mind! Also thank you, Brendan Wolff, and yes, there are more chapters coming, this being the next of… I honestly can't say how many chapters? I'm just letting the story roll out as organically as I can, taking time for all those little moments the films and comics never let us linger over. Suffice to say, I refuse to rush this thing. I mean, we have 2 years to go until we see Bucky again, so...**_

 _ **Thanks to all guest reviewers. I wish all of you would make accounts so we could chat. I love chatting. Ask anyone who's left a review. I'll talk your ear off. Or at least send you a personal thank you note.  
**_

 _ **Onward.**_

"I don't think you should do anything until he wakes up. I don't want to rob him of any possible decisions he can make himself."

Steve. That was Steve's voice… what…

A woman with a Wakandan accent said, "I understand. But it might be best if we go ahead now."

"Is there anything life threatening?"

Bucky had to cough and didn't hear the woman's reply. He blinked a few times. Even with eyes bleary from lack of sleep, he could tell he was in a hospital examination room. A spacious one, painted in a bright blue and fitted out like a luxury bedroom complete with paintings of Wakandan landscapes and a nice bed table, but also with monitors, bright lights hanging over the bed, and trays of cloth-covered instruments, all of which screamed _procedures_ and _cutting_ and _pain._ "Hey," he said. Or tried to say. What actually came out was more of a hoarse grunt. He coughed again. Winced as his ribs reminded him they were broken. He grabbed his side and jostled the chest tube a little. Damn it, he'd hoped they'd taken it out while he was asleep.

"Moot argument now," Steve sighed. He came over and put his hand on Bucky's lower leg. "Hey, buddy. How you feeling?"

"Tired." He rubbed his right eye. "Wha' timezit?"

"You've been asleep about an hour."

Would he ever get more than a pittance of a nap? God, he wanted to sleep for a year. Maybe two. Maybe the rest of his life, but he squashed that thought as soon as it came to him. Last thing he needed was Steve sussing out that he was currently ambivalent about living or dying. He squinted up at Steve. "What were you talking about? What needs to be done?" Was he about to lose a leg or something? What kind of choices did he have to make that the doctor couldn't make herself?

The woman came over. She was short, slightly plump and had a crown of hundreds of soft gray braids twisted atop her head, held in place by a colorful scarf and the sort of hair magic only women knew. Her gaze exuded peace and warmth and made Bucky think of grandmothers offering plates of cookies. Maybe she'd offer him some. He hadn't had any homemade chocolate chip cookies in a very long time. "I am Dr. Ifede," she said, destroying his daydream of cookies. In his experience, doctors handed out pain, not cookies, no matter how kind they appeared. "I am King T'Challa's personal physician, and he has asked that I undertake your care."

T'Challa's own physician? That was... unexpected. "It's, um, it's nice to meet you," he stammered.

"And I am very happy to finally meet you. Now, before I answer your question, I must ask one of my own, the same question as your friend did: how are you feeling, young man?"

Her tone told Bucky something else about her: she was cut from the same cloth as his third-grade teacher, who had been wonderful and kind but tolerated lying about as much as Steve tolerated a bureaucratic leash around his neck. Bucky swallowed the urge to simply say he felt fine. "I'm tired. And sore. My ribs ache, my arm that isn't there hurts, I get woozy when I stand up, I want a plate of chocolate chip cookies and when I'm done eating them, I want to sleep for the next year." _Way to sound like a cranky toddler, Barnes._ But he wasn't entirely kidding about those last two items.

Steve snorted, but surprisingly, she neither laughed nor chided him for his childishness. Instead, she gave him a deeply sympathetic look. "You have been through far too much in your life, Sergeant Barnes. It is time life gave you something better, and I am here to do my part in seeing that it does. If that means getting you some cookies and letting you sleep as long as you wish, I will do everything in my power to make that happen."

Bucky's eyes prickled. Must be the dry air. He cleared his throat. "Thank you."

"But before there are cookies and naptime"—her eyes crinkled in the corners as she said it—"there must be some very necessary medical care to treat all those things that are causing you pain. Before I discuss them with you, would you like for your friend Steven step outside until we are finished?"

Bucky shook his head vigorously. "He can stay." He glanced at Steve, just to be sure the real message— _I need you to stay, you_ better _stay—_ got through. Steve nodded firmly.

"Very good. I find it often helps, having a friend or loved one present, though some people prefer privacy. May I begin?"

Bucky nodded and endured the same sort of medical rigmarole that Adaoma had put him through. After several minutes of quiet listening, intense looking, and gentle poking and prodding over nearly every square inch of his body—"Does it hurt here? No? How about here? Oh, I'm so very sorry, I will not touch there again."—she lifted the line of his chest tube and examined it all the way to the wall where it was plugged in. She opened a door, behind which he saw a set up similar to the one in the quinjet. She watched it for a few moments, nodded and shut the door. When she turned back to him, she smiled. "First of all, I have good news: overall, your injuries are healing well, and your lung seems much improved. I think we can remove the chest tube."

Bucky sighed a little. "That's good."

"Yes, very good indeed. You are a very fast healer. Now, your prosthetic arm is another matter. It is quite a mess, I must say, but I have no doubts whatsoever we can make repairs. It will take time, and before we start we will need information. Do you feel up to talking about it?" She picked up a computer tablet from a table beside the wall.

He nodded. At least one pterodactyl pecked at his stomach.

"Very good. This part that remains, your shoulder—do you know how it is attached?"

Some more pterodactyls stirred, but a glance at Steve reassured him a little. He licked his lips. "It's fused to the bones somehow. I think. I'm not really sure. I know that the skin around the edges gets irritated and infected if I don't take care of it."

"And what do you do to care for it?"

"Wash it, mostly. Put lotion on it if I have any. Use antibiotic ointment on any red spots that crop up."

She nodded as she wrote a note on the tablet. "Is the metal a sort of cap over your shoulder? By which I mean, does your skin extend underneath, or does the skin stop where the metal starts?"

"It stops. I can't… you can't get underneath the metal plating." Not that he hadn't tried in those early days after D.C. when he wanted to rid himself of the metal arm and all it represented. He'd since come to uneasy terms with it, but some days he still felt like ripping it off and throwing it into the nearest river. Guess he didn't have to worry about resisting that urge anymore.

Her words were carefully spoken. "You know this because you tried to remove it yourself?"

He kept his voice flat, emotionless. "The skin tears and bleeds. Nothing comes off."

"I see." She reached out and touched his chin, lifting it and drawing his eyes back to hers. "I will ask no more questions about it, for now."

Bucky nodded.

"This next bit, I hope, will be easier. I will be sending you down to radiology, for the very simple task of taking a scan of your entire body, not only to determine if anything is amiss, but also to see what is _not_ amiss. It seems for the most part that you are in remarkably good shape, considering the battering you endured. From what your good friend Steven here says, you have had a similar, shall we say, upgrade as his?"

Bucky shrugged. He really didn't know what HYDRA had done to him compared with what the SSR had done to Steve, but there were too many similarities in their increased strength and endurance to dismiss a correlation. "I think so. I don't really know what they did to me." Which wasn't entirely true. He knew far too much about what they did to him, just not about the exact nature of the chemicals they stuffed into him. He remembered pills and IV bags and... and...

 _He opened the car trunk, pulled out the case… unlatched it and saw the blue IV bags inside…_

… _his metal fist hit Howard Stark's face once, twice…_

"Shh, shh… Sergeant Barnes, do you hear me?"

He flinched. Felt tears burning the back of his throat. He took a gasping breath.

 _Focus, Barnes. Focus. Breathe._

He glanced over at Steve, who was watching with a deep frown on his face and worry in his eyes.

"There now, do not fret. You are here, you are safe," Dr. Ifede soothed. She took his hand and stroked his fingers softly until his breathing slowed back to normal. "Does this happen often, when you lose yourself in the past?"

Bucky removed his hand from hers and rubbed his face. He wanted to grab his hair, tug on it and let the pain ground him, but he didn't want to do it in front of the doctor. Or Steve, for that matter. So he rubbed his face and pinched the bridge of his nose for a few moments. He finally couldn't stand it anymore and ran his hand through his hair, tugging it in the back. It helped. He dropped his hand back to the mattress beside his leg. "I, uh…some days, yeah."

"I understand." If she noticed him pulling on his hair, she didn't say anything. "I want to be very clear: you do not have to remember nor tell us about anything you do not wish to. We have many very clever people here who need only to look at scans and at your blood to figure out many, many things about you, including what changes were made to your body while you were held captive those many decades. But do you know something I have already determined, something about you that does not depend upon machines or laboratory analysis to see?"

He shook his head.

"I know from what I have read about you that you were a good man before your capture, and my heart tells me that you are still a good man now."

Bucky's breath caught in his throat. He tried to hide it behind firmly clamped lips, but a small sob fought its way past his defenses. He wasn't a good man. He wasn't… no matter how much he wanted to be…

He looked away and struggled to regain his composure, but she tutted at him. "Now, now, do not take on so," she said as she stroked his hair. She pulled a tissue from the box on the bed table and wiped a tear from his cheek. "All will be well."

Bucky didn't see how it ever could be, but he nodded. "'m sorry."

"Shhh. No need for apologies." She threw away the tissue but continued running her hand over his hair, humming softly just as Adaoma had. He had no idea what sort of power these women had, but it was more soothing than anything he'd experienced since before the War. Tension drained out of his limbs.

She smiled and then went on, "Now, for the scan. The remnants of the arm, being comprised of as-yet unknown metal, preclude using magnetic resonance imaging, because if there is ferrous metal in there, you would be torn to pieces when we turned on the machine. So we will take what is called a CT scan, which uses xrays instead of magnetic fields. It is not quite as detailed but it will give us clues to any injuries you may have that aren't obvious. As for your part, you simply lie on the table and relax while we do all the work."

"That doesn't sound so bad," Bucky said.

"No, it is not. What comes after may be a little more difficult. What is left of your arm needs extensive repair work. Captain Rogers explained what happened when he made his minor repairs, how you received a nasty shock. He also explained that the sedatives we have may not work on you. I fear what we must do to repair your arm may prove very uncomfortable, so that is a very large concern."

He thought back to the conversation that had awakened him. "But I'm not gonna lose any more limbs or anything?"

"No," the doctor said, smiling slightly. "Nothing like that."

"Ah, really? Excuse me for a moment," he said, then glared at Steve. "What the hell, Rogers. Way you talked, you sounded like I had to decide whether or not to let 'em cut off my leg or harvest my kidneys!"

"C'mon, Buck, be fair." He blushed, but as Bucky continued to glare, a knot formed at the corner of his jaw. He jutted his chin. "So sue me for wanting to make sure you felt in charge of your own fate after all those years you weren't."

And now Bucky's face felt red. Great. Mutually armed embarrassment. "Okay. Okay. I'm sorry." He looked back to the doctor. "Whatever you need to do is fine, seriously. Go ahead, try your sedatives or if you'd rather, just gimme some of Steve's if he has more of it in the plane. I wake up too soon, gimme more. Or just let me bite on a leather strap. I can handle a lot of pain." _You got no idea how much, doc…_

"I don't think we'll need to resort to such barbaric methods, Mr. Barnes. For now, however, there is no need for sedation. The nurse will come shortly to take you to radiology for the CT scan. When we have the results, I will come in with the anesthesiologist and explain what needs to be done and answer any questions you may have. Until then, try to rest." She smiled at them both and left.

Steve shoved his hands in his pockets. At some point he must have traded out his uniform for civilian clothes: a black t-shirt and jeans. He even had on a nice pair of leather boots. Bucky, on the other hand, still didn't even have a shirt. At least he still had his pants. He jerked his chin toward Steve. "Where'd you get the duds?"

"The staff brought it all shortly after we landed. You were busy sleeping, so I grabbed a quick shower, changed out of my uniform. Good to feel a little bit human again."

Bucky nodded. "Can't wait to get my own shower." He shut his eyes. Heard a chair creak as Steve sat down.

"Do as she said, Buck. Catch another nap."

Bucky didn't argue.

-o0o-

"Buckyyyyy, hey, pal… wake up."

"Nnnuhh." _Go away, Steve. Don' feel good. Not gonna work the docks today. Lemme sleep._

Another voice. More officious. Female. Wakandan. Dr. Ifede. "Sergeant Barnes, can you open your eyes?"

Oh. It wasn't 1936. He wasn't in Brooklyn. Life had gone to shit and now he was in Wakanda.

Wonderful.

With great effort, he opened his eyes a slit. It was enough to cause great excitement, from the way everyone cheered.

"That is very good," Dr. Ifede said. "You had us worried."

He blinked a few times, but then his eyes fell shut and stayed that way.

"Sergeant Barnes?"

He intended to ask, "Is it time for the xray?" Instead, he said, "Szznm." What the hell.

"Mr. Barnes, you are in recovery. The surgery went very well."

Surgery? Recovery? What about the CT scan? And asking questions? He frowned and tried to form words, but nothing came out other than more garbled syllables. God, what happened to his mouth muscles? Was he paralyzed? Had he suffered a stroke in the scanner machine? Would he ever be able to speak again? He tried to move his legs. Felt one twitch, but that was all.

Dr. Ifede kept talking, slowly and carefully enunciating every word. "I think the drugs combined with extreme exhaustion made you fall into a much deeper sleep than anticipated. You've had your nice long nap. How do you feel?"

He didn't feel anything except foggy and limp and confused. He licked his lips. Tried to clear his throat. Felt the bed raise up a little. Something cold against his lips. Ice chip. He took it gratefully and after it had melted, he figured out how to actually open his eyes. Mistake. The world was blurry and whirling. The pterodactyls were back and had invited even more to the party. Not fun. Oh god, not fun at all. "Gonn' be sick…"

Hands shoved him onto his right side and hands gathered his hair and pulled it back and still more hands held a basin beneath his face. He spent some unpleasant moments trying to rid himself of all his internal organs. They stayed put, but he ended up shaky and clammy and feeling as awful as he could ever remember feeling. "How m'sh di' I dhrink las' night?"

There were several soft laughs, at least two female, and one unmistakably Steve's. He heard Dr. Ifede say something about anti-nausea medicine, but then his ears started ringing and the voices faded out as he fell back to sleep.

-o0o-

The next time he woke up, the pterodactyls were sleeping and the room wasn't whirling.

Better. Much better.

He was also alone.

Seemed odd.

He looked around. It was a different room than before. Bigger bed with a soft mattress and guard rails, brownish tan walls instead of blue. Landscape paintings showing waterfalls, mist and giant stone panthers. Large bank of floor to ceiling windows, currently covered by closed blinds. No equipment, no examination lights.

Better. Much better.

He looked at the bed he was in. There was a red button on the side rail that had a picture of a bell on it. He jabbed it. After a few moments, the door opened and a veritable flood of people came in. Behind all the white coats, he could see Steve craning his neck trying to see over their heads.

Two women immediately started fiddling with his IV, blood pressure cuff, and the EKG leads stuck all over his chest. Steve sidled past everyone to huddle in a corner by the window. Dr. Ifede took a spot at the end of his bed. "Sergeant Barnes, it's good to see you awake again. How do you feel this time?"

"Better." Still wondering how he went from 'taking you to radiology after your nap' straight to 'surgical recovery' but hopefully someone would explain things.

She looked at the various numbers and squiggly lines on a computer screen by his bed and nodded. "Your vital signs are much improved. Now tell me, on a scale of 0 to 10, with 0 being no pain at all and 10 being the worst pain you have ever experienced in your life, how do you rate any pain you are feeling right now?"

He cautiously took inventory of all his limbs and his pterodactyl-ridden stomach. All seemed fine, except of course that he had no left arm to check. "Um, zero?"

"Is that a question or are you telling me?"

God, it really was third grade all over again. "Zero."

"Even the left shoulder? Can you move it for me?" She lifted her own in a small shrug.

He cautiously tried it. Things pulled and twinged deep inside the joint. He winced. "Okay, 5. Maybe 6. No… 8. Definitely 8." He ground his teeth and sent a lot of mental messages to his shoulder to calm down. It didn't seem to be listening. "What'd you do to it?" he ground out. "Thought I was just gettin' an xray."

She frowned. "You do not remember going to radiology and then, upon your return, asking all your questions?"

He asked questions? What the hell. "No."

She came around to the side of his bed, pulling a penlight out of her pocket. She shone it in both his eyes. He winced at the brightness. "You're a little light sensitive, but pupils are normal." She returned the light to her pocket. "Retrograde amnesia from anesthesia is unusual, but I do not think there's cause for concern. You may eventually remember."

"It's not my…" He tapped his temple.

"I will be honest...it could be. Anesthesia is not always as risk-free as we would like it to be, especially in individuals with compromised neural function such as yourself. That you slept so long afterward is also a little concerning, but we were using a sedative that none of us have ever used before. It may have some side effects, such as short-term amnesia."

Great. Just what he needed, for his neurally-compromised brain to forget yet more stuff. "So, uh, what exactly did you do?"

"Well, on the outside of the arm, we removed everything that was damaged, and we filed down the jagged areas. Inside, we removed damaged wiring and servos, hinges, anything that was damaged beyond repair." She hesitated. "And we removed a number of items that we suspect were not anything you would want in your body."

"Like what?"

"We found several tracking devices that fortunately seem to have stopped working long ago. But more disturbing was a mechanism containing several small vials of some sort of chemical, ready to be injected into your muscle from the looks of it. Until we hear back from the toxicology lab, we cannot know the chemical's purpose. There were several empty vials, but the ones that were still full seem to have been in there for at least a few years, if not longer. The way in which the compounds had separated suggests it has been a long time since anyone triggered the injectors, so I do not think it any sort of useful medicine that you need to survive. Not something that would, for example, keep your body from rejecting the prosthesis."

A memory stirred around the edges of his mind. "I think," he said slowly, then stopped. He frowned, trying to tease it out. "They were… shit," he whispered as the memory took shape. The pterodactyls stirred to raucous life, but he swallowed hard and forced himself to continue. "They were… drugs to keep me compliant. Not sure how they worked. How my handlers triggered them. I guess if I strayed off… uh, went off mission, they could send a signal? Inject the poison… I mean d-drugs… remotely." He clenched his jaw for a moment, to stop his teeth chattering in fear at the memory of the horror of slowly losing control of his limbs… the helplessness of everything suddenly growing numb, lifeless. Having no idea why.

His breathing quickened.

Damn it. _You're not there. It's not happening now. Focus!_

"Sergeant, you do not have to—"

"No! I'm fine… I'm fine." He squeezed his eyes shut. Took several deep, slow breaths. _Breathe. Focus. I'm in Wakanda. I'm safe._

 _I'm safe._

 _Breathe._

Breathe.

He opened his eyes. Stared at a point on the wall beyond Dr. Ifede's left shoulder. "They only used them once. I was late getting back to base, suddenly felt like a hive of bees stung me, way down inside my arm. Few minutes later, I was sick, weak. Fell down 'cuz my legs quit working. Couple more minutes and I couldn't move a muscle except to breathe. Couldn't even blink. I guess it was a neurotoxin to keep me in one spot until they could come collect me." He pulled his gaze back to her face.

"I see," she murmured, her eyes narrowed. She looked ready to chase down HYDRA herself and inject them with neurotoxins, but she merely turned to murmur something to the nurse about informing the pathology lab. Then she took his hand. "Rest assured, Sergeant Barnes, the toxins have been removed. There is nothing left in you that anyone can use to do you harm."

 _Except what's still left in my brain._ But he simply nodded. "Thank you."

She lightly rubbed his wrist. "Now, for more positive news. We cleaned up a lot of scar tissue that had formed over the years. That is why it hurts so much right now. We had no choice but to cut into healthy bone and muscle to make the joint ready for a new prosthesis, which our technicians are working on even now. I cannot say you will get a new arm soon, but you will indeed receive one, and it will be every bit as functional as the one you lost, and probably more so."

Bucky opened his mouth several times, but couldn't find any words to say. Much to his embarrassment, his eyes again flooded with tears. He bit his lower lip. Glanced at Steve but had to look away because Steve looked about ready to cry, too. Bucky took a breath and tried to collect himself enough to say _thank you._

"You do not need to say anything. I see your thanks in your eyes, young man."

He nodded, then looked down at his left shoulder. The arm had been cut back almost to the shoulder joint, but the red star on what would have been his deltoid muscle was still intact. The sheered-off jagged edges were now neatly covered by a black cap. "How long do you think it will be before I can leave the hospital?"

"Since the nausea is now under control, as soon as you can urinate and have a bowel movement, we will show you to your guest quarters, if the pain is under control."

He felt his cheeks turn red. "Oh."

She chuckled. "They are only normal bodily functions, young man. But fear not, we will preserve your dignity by not watching over your shoulder as you use the facilities. You may simply tell us that you have done so."

Bucky ducked his eyes, grinning a little. " _Hey, Doc, I went pee-pee."_ God. What a thought. "Okay."

"Expect to stay at least one night and most of the day tomorrow. You may feel free to stay tomorrow night as well, if you choose. You've been through quite a lot, and it will not hurt you to let yourself be pampered for a bit." She gave him another warm smile, then turned to give the waiting nurses a string of instructions that Bucky let flow in one ear and out the other. After she left, the nurses smiled a lot at him as they fussed around. One of them injected something in his IV before they trailed out, still smiling and giving him small, shy waves that he returned. Finally, he was alone, except for Steve, who was still standing in the corner trying to make himself small.

Steve let out a big gust of air and relaxed as he stepped over to the bed. "Gets hectic around here."

"Yeah, a little. They don't mess around, do they."

"Nope. Even though it was the middle of the night, they scooped you up and into surgery as soon as you said, 'Okay.' Probably just as well, since you were so exhausted. Helped the sedative work longer. But it's good to see you awake and alert."

He felt a drowsy wave wash over him. Must'a been a painkiller the nurse put in the IV. "Not sure how much longer I'll be that way. You okay?"

"Me? Oh, sure. I'm fine. Just hanging out, reading a little, doing some sketching. Chair's really comfortable."

Bucky looked at the chair, which might have been fine for that little spider kid but not for Captain Long-Legs. "Liar. Look, you don't have to stay. Go get some sleep in a real bed. I'll be fine."

Steve shrugged and didn't answer.

Okay then. Time to change the subject. "T'Challa come back yet?"

"They told me he'll be here in about six hours."

"What about the rest of your team?"

"You mean _our_ team. You're a part of it, Bucky."

"'kay, _our_ team. Where are they?"

"I hope T'Challa knows. Or if not, maybe Sharon or Nat found out, sent a message back with the king. I suspect they're in the Raft."

Bucky had heard about the Raft. Some of the guards in Berlin had taunted him, telling him he was bound to spend the rest of his days rotting there. Maybe he deserved that fate, but Cap's friends sure as hell didn't. "Damn it. Scott and Clint's families must be worried sick."

Steve nodded without saying anything. He looked miserable.

"Hey, you did the best you could. Had to stop Zemo."

Steve shook his head. "No, you and the team did the best you could. I didn't. I was so sure Zemo was planning on releasing the rest of the Winter Soldiers that I didn't bother examining any other possibilities. Shoulda figured out he was just using them as bait."

"So you think you gotta be a mind reader now?"

He shrugged. "It'd come in handy. Part of being a good leader is seeing the angle no one else does."

"Well, boo hoo, you missed one."

Steve gave Bucky the same look he had when he caught Bucky and Sam grinning at him after he kissed Sharon.

Bucky didn't apologize. "Come on, Rogers. Enough guilt tripping. No one expected you to read Zemo's mind. Maybe Wanda could have, if we'd been able to get her close enough to Zemo to try it, but we did the best we could with the information we had. Zemo fooled everyone. Even Stark didn't see it coming." Steve folded his arms and looked unconvinced, so Bucky let it drop. "You going after the team, when you find out where they are?"

"If you're okay, yeah."

"Don't matter how I am. You gotta go get 'em. Never leave a man behind. Or a woman."

Steve just nodded. Bucky thought some more, then asked, "Did I really go down to radiology? Because I don't remember it at all."

"Yeah, you did. And then you came back and talked to all the doctors involved in the surgery. We talked about everything for about twenty minutes, then they took you down to surgery."

"You think Dr. Ifede's right, that it's nothing to worry about, not remembering all that?"

"Yeah. She seems to know her stuff, plus she's the royal family's own physician, so you know she's gotta be the best in the land, if not the entire world. I trust her."

"'kay." Bucky shut his eyes. "Steve?"

"What?"

"I still want cookies."

 _tbc..._

A/N: Ifede is a Nigerian name meaning "Love is Here." Just what Bucky needs, some love. And cookies. Bring this man cookies, stat!


	9. Chapter 9

When Bucky woke up, the blinds were still pulled, the room still mostly dim, and he had no idea if it was midnight, noon, or sometime in between. He was alone again, which he decided was just fine since he didn't really need anyone hearing how much he hissed and groaned on moving for the first time. Damn shoulder was better, but it still hurt like hell.

He pressed the button to raise the head of the bed. As it slowly lifted him, he noticed the portable bedtable was pulled across his knees. Then he smiled.

There was a plate of cookies sitting on it.

There was also a glass of milk. Once he got the bed angle right, he pulled the table closer and felt the glass. Nice and cold. He grabbed a cookie. Chocolate chip and warm enough that it started to bend in the middle. He quickly bit it in two before it could break apart. It was crispy and chewy in just the right measure, and the chocolate chips melted like silk. Whoever made it knew what they were doing. He ate the other half and then took a sip of the milk. For a moment the world and all its problems faded away and he was a kid again.

" _Bucky, don't eat too many. It's nearly time for supper."_

 _He pulled his hand back from the cookie jar. "But ma, it makes my mouf sad not to have a cookie in it."_

 _Ma's eyes smiled, but she had that tone in her voice. "Your mouth will survive."_

" _But I'm a gwowing boy. You said so."_

" _Yes, you are, and yes, I did. But if I only feed you cookies, then you'll grow in the wrong direction."_

 _Bucky frowned. "I don't know what that means."_

" _It means you'll turn into a little butterball instead of a strong young man."_

" _I don' wanna be stwong. And I wike butter. An' my tummy is empty and needs a cookie. Pweeease."_

" _You can fill your tummy with meat and plenty of good vegetables in just a few minutes, when supper is ready."_

 _He pulled a face. "How come cookies ain't good for you but yucky ol' veg'ables are?"_

He picked up another cookie and smiled at it. "Yeah, how come?" he asked. It didn't answer. He didn't care. He shoved the whole thing in his mouth and hummed happily as he chewed.

There was a soft knock on the door and Steve stuck his head in. "Oh hey, good, you woke up while they're still warm!"

"You make these?"

He came in and grabbed one. "Me? God, no. Only cookies I can bake are the ones that come in a tube."

Bucky tried to remember if he'd ever seen cookies in a tube in the grocery stores he'd been to. Probably had and just didn't know what they were. So many things in stores were a complete mystery, which is why he stuck mostly to the meat, produce and canned vegetable aisles. Plums he knew. Green beans, same. Cookies in a tube? Not so much. "Cookies come in a tube now?"

"Well, not all of them, but you can buy pre-made cookie dough in a long roll. You slice it up into cookie-sized chunks, stick 'em on a baking sheet and put 'em in the oven. Or if you're really lazy you can buy them already cut up and do the same thing. Those are actually the kind I buy because yes, I am that lazy."

"So that's how everyone makes cookies now?" He found the thought extremely unsettling.

"Nah, lotta people still bake from scratch. Sam makes incredible sugar cookies from a recipe handed down from his great-grandmother, and I had a neighbor in DC, Mr. Kelly, who makes cinnamon rolls that'll bring you to your knees, they're so good."

Okay, maybe the future didn't suck quite so much. "Wonder who made these."

"Nurse told me the king's baker himself."

"They're really good. Here, drink some of the milk."

"You don't mind my germs?"

"Never did when we were kids."

"Yeah, because you never caught anything."

"And you caught everything. Probably shouldn't have let you drink after me, come to think of it. No telling how many germs I gave you."

"Well, we both survived, so cheers." Steve lifted the glass of milk at him, then took a sip. "Man. Good milk. Everything's good here. Lunch was fantastic. Best steak I ever had, and some really good soup."

"Oh yeah? What kind?"

"No idea. But it was good."

"Did it have cloves in it?"

"Nope. Just meat and vegetables of some kind."

Despite the cookies, Bucky's stomach growled. "What time is it?"

"Four-thirty in the afternoon."

"Do you think they'll bring me some food, or do I have to go find the dining room or something?"

"I'm sure they'll bring you something. Probably green jello and chicken broth."

Bucky felt a stab of dismay. It must have shown on his face because Steve laughed. "I'm kidding. You're not on any restrictions that I know of, so based on how good these cookies are, I'm guessing you'll eat like a king."

He didn't need to eat like a king, but it was reassuring to think he might get more of a meal than watery broth and green jello.

Steve looked around the dim room. "How's your head doing? Want me to open the shades, let in some light?"

"It's better. So yeah, that'd be great. Guess I ought to quit hiding in a cave."

"I'll go slow. Tell me if it hurts your eyes." Steve fumbled around trying to find the cord, then slowly opened the drapes. From the angle of the sun, Bucky saw that the room faced north. He pushed the bed table back and scooted down until he was clear of the bed rails, then he swung his bare legs over.

"You need help?"

Bucky shook his head. "Not getting up yet. Just want to sit and see the view."

It was definitely a view worth sitting up for. The hospital was up on a hill and the city stretched out below, metal and glass towers keeping company with low, sprawling stucco buildings with grass or tile roofs. Beyond the city, a river glimmered in the sunshine and beyond that, green jungle wreathed in mist crowded the base of towering black cliffs that glistened with waterfalls. It was modern and ancient, civilized and wild, and above all, very _Wakandan_. "Wow," he said.

"Beautiful, isn't it? You can't see it from where you're sitting, but when you come to the window and look off to the right, there's a huge stone statue of their Panther god. Or goddess. I'm not sure if it's male or female and I've heard people mention both. Either way, it's impressive."

Bucky wanted to see it, but he realized what he wanted to see most at the moment were clothes. Real clothes. A shirt. Pants. Shoes. Since the surgery, all he had on was a weird hospital gown that had a breast pocket with a battery-pack kind of gizmo that all the leads from the EKG patches went into. Its weight kept pulling the gown's neckline down his right arm. He yanked it back up. "Can you see if you can find me some real clothes? Like maybe my pants?"

Steve turned from the window and looked at him from head to toe. "What, you don't like Wakandan hospital fashion?"

Bucky glared.

Steve laughed. "Calm down. There's some clothes right here. Not your actual pants, because they're cleaning them, but this stuff looks comfortable enough." He opened a drawer and pulled out a pile of folded things, all white, and set it on the bed beside him.

Bucky didn't know when the last time was he wore all white. Probably never. He wondered if someone was making a not very subtle statement. White for purity... for cleansing... for making a new start? Maybe it was supposed to represent a blank slate, a future where he could finally write his own story, just like he wrote his past down on the white pages of his notebooks. He rubbed his hand over the shirt on the top of the stack. A blank slate on which to draw a whole new man, a good man… could he do that? Could he become that? Could he erase the stains of his past and really be that pristine again?

He wanted to. God, how he wanted to undo all the horrible things, but to wear white _now_ , before he'd even started making amends….

He knotted his fist around the fabric.

He wasn't worthy of wearing all white. Not yet.

"You okay, Buck?"

"I'm just, uh… do you think they have any other color besides white?"

"I guess I could ask, but what's wrong with white?"

Bucky shrugged. No way he could put all those thoughts into actual spoken words. Those were things to put in a journal that only he could read. "It's… I… I just don't want to get anything dirty."

"I'm sure they have good laundry facilities."

Bucky forced a smile. "Yeah. Worrying for nothing, I guess." He picked up the shirt. It was a tank-style tee like the kind he had worn back in Romania and the US, so that was familiar enough. There was also underwear, white cotton pants, and socks. He saw a pair of white sneakers on the floor.

God, so much white…

He sighed a little. Nothing else to do but put it all on and avoid looking in the mirror. He was probably overthinking it anyway. Maybe they clothed all their patients in white, even the criminals. Or maybe in Wakanda white meant something evil and black stood for good. Steve was wearing black, after all.

 _Stop thinking so much, Barnes. Just put on the damn clothes._

He dropped the t-shirt so he could pull the EKG gizmo from his hospital gown pocket. When he did, he realized that the wires weren't attached, though the little round lead stickers they snapped onto were still stuck all over his chest and arm. He tossed the gizmo on the bed table and unsnapped the top of the gown and pulled it off ( _sorry you have to see me in all my glory, Rogers, but if you rescue a half-dead, brainwashed soldier, that's the lumps)_ , then peeled off all the sticky circles from his chest. He tried to reach the one on his upper arm with his teeth.

"Here, I got that one," Steve said. He peeled it off and tossed it in the trashcan. Bucky followed it with all the others, balling them up and lobbing them toward the little metal can. He missed. Figured.

Bucky picked up the shirt again, shaking it until it opened a little at the bottom. He guided it over his head and threaded his arm through. He pulled it down, gingerly easing it over his left shoulder. "Not bad for a one-armed man," he said, smiling slightly.

"You need help with the pants?"

"Hope not. A guy needs a little dignity."

"I can leave—"

"Nah, that's okay. Not like you've never seen me naked. I remember that bathtub in the kitchen in our Brooklyn flat."

"Yeah, not a lot of privacy in that place."

"More like none, unless one of us sat on the fire escape, which you couldn't do most of the time because of your asthma, so it was get over being shy or never take a bath or change underwear."

Steve ruefully shook his head. "You put up with a lot, back then."

"Yeah, and I'm still tryin' to remember if you were worth it or not."

Steve made a face. "Thanks, you're a real pal."

Bucky smiled faintly as he grabbed the underwear. He got both legs through, then he stood and slowly worked them up and over everything. It was tedious, but he managed. Same with the pants. After a few minutes and a couple of mumbled curses, he got them pulled up and straight around his waist. "Ta-dah!" He raised his arm in ironic triumph but ruined the moment when he staggered off balance.

And of course Steve got that stricken look on his big ugly mug again.

Yeah, that wouldn't do. One mopey super soldier was enough for the Wakandans to deal with. "C'mon, Steve. I'm okay, really. Just gotta get used to not having the weight of a metal arm on my left side, that's all. Besides, you heard Dr. Ifede—I'll be getting a new arm. Call it a temporary setback."

Steve crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders, but he didn't argue.

 _Stupid Irishman, nothing ever cheers him up when he gets in a guilt-ridden funk._ Bucky sat back down and grabbed a sock. Took him three tries before he finally hooked his toes into it. He yanked it up over his heel and ankle. The left one went on faster, since he'd figured out the knack. He picked up the shoes and frowned. They had laces. "Okay, not sure how this'll work."

"Let me do it," Steve said quietly. He knelt down and helped Bucky get the shoes on, then he tied the laces.

When Steve didn't get up immediately, Bucky asked, "What's wrong?"

A long silence. Then a sigh. "If I'd found you sooner, before the bombing, I wouldn't be kneeling on the floor tying your shoes for you. I'm sorry."

Bucky gritted his teeth. He'd forgotten how annoying Guilty Steve could be. "You're forgetting something."

Steve looked up.

"I didn't _want_ to be found." When Steve didn't answer, he went on. "You act like it's all on you. All this. But it's not. It's on Zemo. Before that, it's on HYDRA. Before _that_ , it was on Red Skull and before that it was on Hitler. None of it's on you, including my own choice to stay the hell away from everyone while I sorted out my head, so quit trying to carry the world, Atlas."

"You sure it was really your choice? To stay away?"

"Absolutely. I didn't trust my mind." Still didn't trust it, but he wasn't going to say that to Steve right now. He needed to cheer Steve up, not drive him further into despair.

Steve shifted around to sit on the floor with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. "Did I ever come close?"

"To finding me? Hell yeah."

Steve's expression held just the trace of a smirk. Progress, though Smug Steve was, in many ways, even more annoying than Guilt-Ridden Steve. "When?"

"In St. Louis. I spotted Wilson at the frozen custard stand on Grand. My place was a few blocks from there."

"Damn it. I told him we couldn't risk stopping."

"Don't blame him. You ever tried a Ted Drewes concrete?"

"Yeah, yeah. He ordered one called the Cardinal Sin for me, just because of the name. 'Closest thing you'll ever get to actually sinning, Cap.' He's an idiot."

Bucky chuckled. He was liking Sam more and more.

Steve went on, "Anyway, it was full of cherries and hot fudge and it was… yeah. It was good. Not worth losing you, though."

"Aw, I'm touched. You might've decided different if he'd gotten you the Crater Copernicus."

"What's in that one?"

"Devil's food cake, whipped cream and hot fudge."

"Yeah, I probably would have given up the hunt and the shield and settled down in St Louis to become a police sketch artist for that."

"Bastard," Bucky muttered, but he grinned. "Get up and outta my way. I wanna see that panther statue."

Steve scrambled to his feet. "Need help?"

Bucky didn't even dignify that with a reply. He simply walked to the window and looked out and… stopped breathing. The statue was beyond anything he'd ever seen. It was huge, as tall as some of the tallest buildings, and it looked off to the east with a glare that promised death to all who dared to challenge Wakanda. "Holy cow," Bucky murmured once his lungs started working again.

Steve came up beside him. "Beats even Howard's flying car, doesn't it."

"Who are these people, Steve," Bucky whispered, "and why the hell do any of them give a rat's ass about me?"

Steve put his hand on Bucky's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Both their king and their god have declared that you're a good man. That's a pair of very hefty endorsements."

As Bucky stared at the panther, he felt a chill crawl down his spine. Even though the cat was looking away from him, he still felt laid bare. It made him remember who he really was. He might tease and banter with Steve like in the old days, days he could barely remember, but he wasn't Bucky Barnes anymore. He was the Winter Soldier, a killer with a black-stained soul. If Wakanda's god were to turn around and look into his eyes, really _look_ , his fierce gaze would see the evil that still tainted him, that would forever taint him. He wasn't worth all this. He wasn't worth all this at all.

"Shut the curtains," he said.

"What? I thought—"

"Shut them, Steve."

He didn't want the light. He didn't want white clothes. He didn't want a people as good as the Wakandans to care so much about him, and he didn't want their god, if he was real, to even know he existed.

He climbed into his bed, rolled away from Steve, and shut his eyes to all of it.

 _tbc..._

A/N: **Well, at least he got some cookies.**

 **Bonus points to any of you who know about Mr. Kelly and his cinnamon rolls from** _ **Do Not Go Gentle.**_ **He's probably wondering where the hell Steve's got off to, and I know for sure he'd try to cheer poor Bucky up with a plate of his cinnamon rolls.**


	10. Chapter 10

Bucky stared at the darkened wall beside his bed. Lying on his right side was uncomfortable, but he didn't feel like rolling over. He listened to the small sounds Steve made as he settled into the chair. After a moment, he heard a page turn. Then another and another. Bucky knew Steve could read fast, but he couldn't read _that_ fast.

After the sixth page turn, Bucky rolled over onto his back. He stared at the ceiling. "You're not really reading."

"Is it that obvious?"

He finally looked over. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for. All you did was tell me to close the curtains."

"And then I stared at the wall sulking instead of explaining myself."

Steve shrugged. "You don't have to explain anything you don't want to, Buck. You know that."

"Yeah. I do. Know that, I mean." He sat up and swung his legs over the bed. "I just… all this. I don't know. It's a lot to sort through."

Steve nodded without saying anything.

Bucky examined a hangnail on his thumb. "I was… well, I wouldn't say _happy_ , living in Bucharest, but I had a routine. I mean, it wasn't really a routine, because sticking to a routine would get me captured." He stopped, then snorted. "Got captured anyway. But before that, I was...it almost felt like home. Or maybe it wasn't home as much as just...familiar." He rubbed his face. As usual, he couldn't find the words he wanted. _I guess two years on the run after 70 years of not being allowed to speak of anything outside mission parameters will do that to a guy._

He needed a notebook.

Steve waited for a moment, then said, "You knew the city. Knew the hiding places, knew when it was safe to go out, when it was better to stay in."

Bucky nodded. "Yeah. That. I also knew where to find cheap clothes. Food." He smiled a little. "Even had a friend or two. One of the vendors in the market was a baker. Name was Bogdan. He made these pastries that I liked, _gogoși_. Like donuts, you know? Really good. I'd buy a _gogoa_ _șă_ and then go over to where a lady sold this lace stuff that she had knitted or crocheted or whatever it is. Like, um, doilies? Is that what they're called? Those little round lacy mats?"

Steve nodded.

"Yeah. Doilies. She made other stuff, scarves and hats, but those doilies were so beautiful. She'd sit in the market each day and knit them, and some days I'd buy a _gogoașă_ and stand in the shadows of a doorway off to the side. I could see her from there, but no one would notice me unless they were really looking hard. Nobody ever did because, you know, I just was some American bumming around Europe. Dime a dozen, kids backpacking all over Europe. It was a good cover. Anyway, I'd eat and watch her hands. God, they moved so fast, so sure. She used this sort of shuttle thing, in and out and over and under… made the most delicate patterns. Like snowflakes, you know? Or stars. I don't know. Beautiful, whatever they were. I never spoke to her, but she'd sometimes look over, see me there in the shadows, call out, ' _Băiatul din umbră, intră în lumină!_ ' 'Shadow boy, come into the light!' I'd just smile and shake my head, and she'd kinda wave her hand like she was disgusted with me, but she'd always laugh."

"She sounds nice."

"She was. Watching her fascinated me and relaxed me at the same time. I don't know why, really, but… yeah. It didn't make any sense—I mean, what do I want with lace doilies, for shit's sake. But watching her made me feel safe. I don't feel that way with too many people."

After a moment, Steve said, "You remember Mrs. Fong, lived on the third floor of our building on 53rd?"

Bucky frowned. "That the building where Mrs. Franklin lived?"

"Yeah. Only the third floor."

He tried to pull up a memory, but all he could think of were dim hallways full of doors and the smell of cabbage and onions and pine cleaner. "Don't think so."

"She made lace. Called it tatting—she used a needle instead of a shuttle, but it sounds about like what your Romanian friend makes. For a while, when you were about eight, you used to love going to her place on Sunday afternoons, just to watch her make things. She even let you try once, but you knotted up the string so badly that you figured out pretty quickly that tatting wasn't exactly in your wheelhouse. So she gave you these little Chinese donuts to eat instead. She called them _tánggāo._ If I happened to be tagging along, she'd give me some, too, but you were the apple of her eye, so she gave you more. She wasn't too concerned with the idea that you shouldn't play favorites." He smiled. "I don't know if it was those donuts or just that you found watching her so fascinating, but you sure did like to go over to her place."

"I may be brain damaged, but even I can kinda see the connection between then and now."

"You loved that old lady and she loved you, so yeah. You may not remember details, but you obviously remember the feeling of warmth and affection she gave you. And the donuts."

"Kinda wish I had one of Mrs. Fong's doilies, just to remember her by. Or pretend to remember her."

"Fake it 'til you make it?"

Bucky sighed. "Something like that."

"Well, if it's any help, you never wanted any of the doilies." Steve raised his voice to a cracking falsetto. "'Them's too girly for a man like me, Mrs. Fong.'"

"I did not."

"You did, my friend. You most certainly did. All of eight years old and already calling yourself a man."

Bucky felt his face warm. "Well… whatever."

Steve laughed. "Don't feel bad. We all say stupid stuff when we're kids. And you made her laugh so hard when you said that. I think it was the very next Christmas she made you a dragon out of a little bit of leftover red thread. Boy, were you proud of that thing."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Said that in Chinese folklore, dragons were guardians. Brought good luck. So she made you one because she knew you spent most of your time protecting me. She admired that about you."

"Hope she never heard about the whole helicarrier fight. She'd take her dragon back."

"She probably would have walked right up to you and boxed your ears and that would have been that. She was little, but she was fierce."

Bucky shook his head. What a picture, some tiny little old Chinese lady taking out the Winter Soldier with one firmly-worded reprimand and a good shake of his ear.

Steve went on. "You know she was big into the Chinese zodiac. Told us that because you were born in the year of the snake and I was born in the year of the horse, we were destined to be good friends."

"She wasn't wrong."

"No, she wasn't. It was uncanny, really. She said I was 'earth horse', told me that earth horses were men who are optimistic, kind-hearted, righteous, but irritable; with a strong sense of responsibility, and always ready to help others."

"'Righteous but irritable'? Oh my god, that's perfect. That's you. That's so you. In some ways I've only known you for about a week, but that's exactly how I'd describe you. I can just picture the propaganda poster: 'Captain America: Righteous But Irritable. Don't piss him off!'"

"Shut up. Anyway, she said you were a fire snake. Fire snakes like the limelight."

"Now there's irony for you."

"I don't know. When we were kids you were always clowning around, cracking jokes… then when we were older, you were always the one going out on the town, dancing with all the girls. The spotlight always found you, and you never seemed to mind."

"I don't think I'm much of a fire snake anymore," Bucky said, his mirth fading away like so much smoke. "More like just a pile of ashes."

Silence fell between them. In it, Bucky heard quiet voices in the hallway, nurses talking to one another. From behind the curtained window, he heard a bird singing. Heard the rhythmic pound of a hammer, the buzz of a saw. People building things, making the world better. Like Mrs. Fong had, in her own small way. And Bogdan and the lace lady in the market. Like he had always wanted to. "I always figured I'd make the world better." He blinked several times. "To think that I…" He ran his hand through his hair, grabbing a bunch in the back and hanging onto it.

"It's okay, Buck," Steve said very softly.

Anger flared. "No, Steve. It's _not okay._ " He took a deep breath. This wasn't Steve's fault. None of this was. He didn't deserve to be a target of Bucky's rage. No one did, except HYDRA and Zola and Karpov… every handler and organization that used him against all that was good in the world. And he himself deserved everyone's rage. God, did he ever. He should have fought harder. Fought to his very last breath and very last drop of blood. Killed himself instead of blindly following their orders, all those goddamn orders...

 _I remember all of them…_

Wasn't true. God knew how many more murders he'd done that he couldn't remember yet.

 _I did it…_

The old Bucky… if he was as good and pure as everyone seemed to think, a dragon out to protect everyone... why the hell hadn't he _fought_? Why did he just give in?

 _They destroyed him. The old Bucky. The tortured him and wiped him and silenced him. He's gone._

But is he really gone? Steve still sees him. Sam still sees him. Scott and Wanda and Clint, maybe Natasha and now even T'Challa… they all still see Bucky.

 _Why the hell can't I see him? Why can't I see myself?_

"What happened to him, Steve? The old Bucky. The good guy I used to be," he whispered.

"He's still there. _You_ are still _here_."

He chewed on his lip. Stared at the wall. "I don't know how to find him." Even to his own ears, his voice sounded as far away as his lost soul.

"You've been finding him, little by little since you broke free from HYDRA. We'll figure it out the rest of the way, together."

 _Optimistic damn earth horse._ Bucky blinked, then turned his gaze to the floor. "He'd hate this. I know that much about him."

Steve didn't say anything.

"I just… damn it, how did this happen to me, Steve?" His eyes filled with tears and he felt his face crumple, but he didn't care. "How did all this _happen_? I didn't… d-didn't want to do it, Steve. You gotta know that. Even though I did it all, there was always a part of me that… t-that hated it. But I couldn't stop. They d-didn't give me a choice. I had to do it. _But I didn't want to do any of it._ "

"I know," Steve said. His voice sounded as clogged with tears as Bucky's eyes felt. "I know, buddy." He got up and put his hand on Bucky's good shoulder. Massaged it gently, as if he was trying to knead away all the sorrow and rage.

Bucky scrubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. He shook his head, words completely out of reach.

 _I didn't want to._

 _But I did it._

"I don't know what to do," he finally whispered. "I don't deserve to live, not when I've ruined so many lives. But dying seems too easy a way out."

Steve pulled him close. "It's okay, Bucky," he murmured. "Like I said, we'll figure it out."

Bucky stiffened for a moment, but Steve just held him tighter. He finally threw his arm around Steve's waist, buried his face in Steve's shirt, and silently cried.

 _tbc..._

 _Author's Note: okay then. *hands tissues all around*_

 _Used Google translate because I can't just text Sebastian and ask, "How do you say this in Romanian?" Darn it._

 _Tried to make meaning clear in context, but if you missed context clues, translations are:_

 _Gogoși (plural), gogoașă (singular) - Romanian sweet pastries similar to filled doughnuts. (Wikipedia)_

 _Tánggāo (糖糕), or "sugar cake", is a deep-fried sweet dough, eaten as a snack… similar to churros or beignets._

 _Google "tatting dragon" and you'll see the most amazing lace dragons._

 _For Chinese zodiac information, google "china highlights year of the horse" or "year of the snake" (1918 & 1917)_


	11. Chapter 11

_Includes some war-time death details._

-o0o-

After a few minutes, the storm of tears lessened to some embarrassing hiccups and sniffles. God, when was the last time he cried that hard? When he was three? Shortly after DC when he saw he had once been a hero? Or was it befo—

 _The guard threw him hard onto the floor of his cell. "Your captain is dead, Soldier. There is no one to rescue you."_

 _No... no... he couldn't be... but they'd shown him the newspapers, the newsreels… "You're lying!"_

 _The guard smirked as he slammed the iron door shut._

 _Bucky threw himself against it. "No!" He screamed it over and over as he punched his fist bloody against the rusted metal, until the word dissolved into sobs that wracked his broken ribs. But the pain didn't matter nothing mattered Steve was dead he was dead it was always supposed to be him not Steve but it was Steve—_

Bucky clenched his arm around Steve so hard that Steve gasped. "Bucky, what's wrong?"

 _Steve's not dead... he's here... right here... breathe... breathe..._

 _We're both here._

 _C'mon, calm down. Breathe…_

"Bucky? You okay? You're shaking. Is it your shoulder? Do I need to get the nurse?"

"No. Sorry, sorry," he mumbled. "Just, um... a memory... bad one." He had to clamp his lips shut. He swallowed bile.

 _Steve's right_ here _. He's alive. Calm down. Calm down calm down he's alive he's here you're here calm down…_

Steve started rubbing small circles on his back. "Easy, pal," Steve murmured. "You're okay. You're safe." He kept repeating that over and over and finally the nausea eased and the trembling stilled. When Bucky sagged against him, spent, he felt Steve move, heard him yank a few tissues out of the box. Still holding Bucky close, he pushed them into his hand. "Here. Blow."

"Sorry," he said again, but he pulled away far enough to blow his nose.

"Quit apologizing. If any guy on the planet has a right to cry, it's you."

No, he didn't. He didn't say it out loud, though. He tossed the tissue toward the trashcan. Missed again. "Shit."

He felt a laugh rumble through Steve's chest. "For a sniper, you've got really lousy aim."

Bucky grunted, then sighed a little. He felt completely stupid, but he didn't want to pull away from Steve. Wasn't sure why exac—

" _It's too cold to sleep apart, fellas," Cap yelled from the barn entrance. "Get inside, let's huddle up."_

 _They jogged out of the snowstorm into the shambles of a barn. There was a stack of hay in the corner and Steve had hollowed out a little cove. He sat down and spread his arms. "Come to papa dog, little puppies."_

 _Bucky groaned, Morita cursed under his breath, Dernier pulled a face, but they all threw themselves at Steve. Bucky was quickest and snagged Steve's right side, Dernier his left. Dum Dum plastered himself against Bucky's right. "Damn it, Dum Dum, not_ that _close. I gotta breathe."_

" _It's sixteen below zero, Barnes. Your breathing is not as important as me not freezing my ass off."_

 _There was a thud beside Dum Dum as Gabe settled in. The thump of his body hitting Dum Dum's traveled through the line like they were all pool balls lined up for a trick shot. "Nine ball in the corner pocket," Bucky called. Cap laughed and Bucky felt the vibration through his coat…._

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"You remember that cold night, back in the war…"

"When we dogpiled like a bunch of puppies because otherwise we would have frozen to death?"

Bucky smiled a little. He kept his head against Steve's chest. Listened to the steady thud of his heartbeat, just as he had back in 1943. He shuddered once at a fleeting vision of Steve without a heartbeat, frozen to death, but it passed quickly. _Steve's alive._ "Funny, I suddenly remember that night like it was yesterday."

"I'm glad. That was actually a good night for all of us. Too cold for HYDRA or Nazis to be out, and the way we all piled up under that hay, we stayed warm enough to get some sleep."

Bucky realized something else he'd forgotten: Steve was a lot warmer than most people. He'd forgotten how much the serum amped up his body temperature. Good for freezing nights during war, not so much in tropical hospital rooms, even with air conditioning. He pulled away. Grabbed another tissue to blow his nose again. God, he hated crying. Hated flashbacks. Hated his fickle brain and all the landmines it held.

He pretty much hated his life.

Steve kept a hand on his right shoulder, which was good because his left shoulder was throbbing after all that. "I won't be dumb enough to ask what else you remembered, but I hope some of those tears helped, a little. No shame in letting it out."

"They, uh, yeah. Coulda done without the flashback, but I'm okay. Mostly." Bucky tossed the tissue (it missed again, _damn it_ ) and drew his legs up to his chest. He wrapped his arm around them, chilled a little now that he had pulled away from Steve. He rested his chin on his right knee. He noticed the damp stain on Steve's shirt, right over his stomach. "Sorry I slobbered all over your shirt."

Steve plucked at the shirt and shrugged. "It'll dry."

Silence fell. Bucky wasn't sure what to say, or even if he _could_ say anything. Words floated, meaningless and out of reach. His shoulder hurt like hell, but worse was the dull and stupid blankness in his mind left in the flashback's wake. An emptiness that he'd felt before and never knew how to fill. Wasn't peace. Wasn't calm. More like… tenuous existence, like he had one foot in the present but the other… somewhere in a brittle reality that would shatter if he tried to put any weight down. So he stayed silent and still, waiting. Counting his breaths. Which step could he take? Which foot was in which reality? If he took a step, he might come back… but he might not…

"Bucky," Steve said softly.

Bucky blinked slowly. "I… I can't… the ground is… dunno where to…" His focus drifted… drifted off…

…

…

…

"Jesus, Bucky, c'mon… snap out of it!"

Bucky blinked and saw Steve's face inches from him. "Steve," he whispered.

"You with me now?"

"Um… I… uh… yeah…" He looked uncertainly around the room. Tan walls, paintings, curtains. "Okay. Okay. Yeah. I'm here."

"Lay down," Steve ordered, and when Bucky didn't move, he let out a huff and gently pushed him onto his pillow. Bucky didn't resist as Steve lifted his legs onto the bed. "I'm going to get the nurse."

Bucky finally took a deep breath. "No… don't. I'm okay, really. This… happens after a bad flashback. Sometimes I have to sleep, but I think this time… yeah, just gimme a few minutes."

Steve frowned, his face a study in worry and disapproval, but he didn't press the call button or rush off to round up a team of medical personnel to fuss over him. God, he didn't want fussing. Not right now.

"This happen a lot?"

"Less now than at first. I mean… after Washington." He scooted up on the pillow a little. Stretched his eyes wide and blinked some more. "Just… dunno how to explain it."

"You don't have to. I've sat in on some of Sam's support sessions, seen a few guys have flashbacks. They're always groggy for a while, afterward. Like they're still only halfway back to the present." He scratched his head. "Guess I'm just not used to seeing _you_ this way."

Bucky nodded. He swallowed. "Can you get me some water?"

"Sure." Steve rushed off to the bathroom, obviously relieved to have something tangible to do since dragging nurses in was off the table. Bucky heard water running, then Steve was back with a paper cup in his hand. As soon as Bucky was sitting up, he handed it to him.

Bucky downed it in one go and put the cup on the bed table. "Thanks."

"Better?"

"Yeah." His footing was solid again. He gave Steve a grateful look and a shadow of a smile.

Steve gave him a quick squeeze of the back of his neck and then sat down. He seemed to sense Bucky's mood—he always could, Bucky remembered that much—because he picked up his book and this time seemed to genuinely start reading.

Bucky again pulled his knees to his chest. He stared at his shoes. An ancient echo told him to _get your shoes off the bed, how many times have I told you not to put your shoes on the furniture, James Buchanan Barnes,_ but he didn't heed the voice. There was a slight scuff on the left toe. He wondered if he somehow put it there, even though he hadn't worn the shoes more than an hour. He licked his thumb and rubbed it against the gray spot. It disappeared.

If only he could rub out the marks on his soul as easily.

He put his forehead on his knees. Let his hair hang over so it formed a little tent to hide his face. He still felt an urge to cry. To lose himself in a storm of weeping until he was nothing but a desiccated husk that the wind could toss and blow until he was nothing but scattered ashes...

" _Ashes to ashes, dust to dust… we commend the soul of Sarah Rogers unto your keeping, o Heavenly Father…"_

…

…

"… _didn't make it. I'm sorry, Sergeant Barnes. I know you tried your best to reach him, but even if you had, it would have been too late. That bullet nicked his aorta."_

 _Bucky blinked back tears. "Thanks, Colonel. You want me to, uh, write his parents?"_

" _No, son. I'll take care of it. Unless he wanted you to give them a message?"_

 _The private had been all of eighteen, so cocksure he'd make it out of the war alive that he'd never even considered writing one of those 'if I fall, send this to my parents' letters. Bucky felt ancient. "No, sir. He didn't."_

" _Dismissed then, and get yourself to the medic, have them look at that cut on your scalp. Looks like you lost enough blood to give the entire 107_ _th_ _a transfusion."_

Bucky sighed at the memory (just a memory, not a flashback, thank God). He couldn't remember that kid's name, but he remembered his ashen, lifeless face. The shocked eyes wide and staring at the sky, the mouth slack, open in a scream he never had a chance to utter. The neat, round hole on his chest, the bloody mess the bullet left as it went out his back. He remembered feeling he'd let the kid down, because he hadn't been quick enough to yell at him to duck.

"Steve?" he said quietly, his voice muffled by his hair and his knees.

"Yeah?"

"You ever… ever think about back in the war, the ones we lost? The ones we couldn't save?" He finally lifted his head. Watched through the hair in his face as Steve put the book down.

"Yeah. I see them, sometimes, in my dreams. Wazlowski. Meyers. O'Donnell. Flaherty. And for a long time, a guy named Bucky Barnes."

Bucky winced. "That day on the bridge, when we fought... I knew you, sort of."

Steve took a careful breath. "I wondered."

"They wiped me, after. Said I'd been out of cryo too long. Was getting unstable. But it wasn't from being out of cryo. It was from seeing you. I knew you. I couldn't figure out how, but I knew you."

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to get completely through to you then."

Bucky shrugged but didn't comment. There was no way Rogers could have jarred him out of himself at that point, so no sense in wallowing in regrets. He didn't like thinking about the bank vault, so he turned his thoughts back to the War, the men Steve mentioned. "O'Donnell… was he… was he a little short guy, red hair? Loved to arm wrestle?"

Steve smiled sadly. "Yeah. Dum Dum used to call him Banty, because he was a lot like a little banty rooster."

"I remember him. I remember more of them all the time."

"Did you just remember another one, one you lost?"

He knew Steve was really asking about first flashback, but Bucky wasn't ready to talk about the horror of believing Steve was dead, how it had been the beginning of his own end. He blinked back more tears. Cleared his throat. "Yeah. There, uh, was a private. Young kid. Can't remember his name. It was a couple weeks before Azzano, I think? I was on the hill above, in my usual sniper position. I had glanced down because the tree I was in started to creak a little, and when I looked up, there was a Nazi. Popped up outta nowhere. I started to yell and turn my gun, but I was too slow. Kid didn't have a chance. Always blamed myself for that. For not seeing that Nazi sooner."

Thankfully Steve didn't try to tell him he shouldn't feel bad. He just nodded. "It's hard. Your head tells you that you can't save everyone. But they weigh on your heart, the ones you can't save. The ones who die from your mistakes weigh you down even more."

Bucky leaped at the chance to divert the conversation away from himself. "I read what happened in Lagos. Is Wanda… she okay?"

Steve shrugged. "As okay as any of us. I talked to her, a little. She was still working her way through it when Ross showed up with the Accords and everything went pear-shaped."

"Think the rest of the team's all right?"

"I don't know. I hope when T'Challa arrives he'll have some news."

"Hope they're all okay."

"They're strong."

Bucky gave him a hard stare. "So was I."

Steve winced, but any reply he might have made was cut off by a knock on the door. It opened and a young man in a very formal suit stepped in. "Captain Rogers?"

Steve nodded. "How can I help you?"

The man bowed slightly. "King T'Challa has arrived and sends his regards to you both. He requests the honor of your presence, Captain Rogers, at your earliest convenience. I am here to escort you, when you're ready."

"Of course," he said. "I'll be right with you."

"I will await you in the hall," the man said, and shut the door behind him.

Steve looked at Bucky. "You gonna be okay while I'm out?"

"I'm fine. They'll probably bring me something to eat here in a little bit. Or I'll sleep. Don't worry about me."

"Buck… I'm sorry."

"I'm not mad, okay? I just… don't have much faith in men with cages. I'm worried. Anyway, go brush your hair. It's sticking up in the back and you look like an idiot."

He smiled at Steve's muffled curse as he ducked into the bathroom. A few moments later he re-emerged, the stubborn cowlick in the back, the one that'd been there since they were kids, plastered down with water. Bucky hoped it wouldn't spring up in the middle of his meeting with T'Challa.

"Better?" Steve asked, turning his head.

"It'll have to do, I guess, since there's no time to buy any Brylcreem."

"You want me to say anything to T'Challa?"

"Just give him my thanks."

Steve nodded, then he was out the door and gone. Bucky rolled onto his back. He wanted to knead his shoulder, but the ache was deep underneath solid metal. No way to get to it. He laid his forearm across his eyes and tried not to think about flashbacks. Tried not to worry about the team. Failed at both.

"T'Challa, you better have brought good news," he murmured as the pterodactyls came swooping back.

 _tbc..._


	12. Chapter 12

_Contains mention of suicide/self harm._

-o0o-

"And how is our young man doing this afternoon?" Dr. Ifede sang out as she breezed in shortly after Steve left. Her arrival jarred Bucky from a morose inner battle over whether to press the button to ask for something to eat or take a nap instead. He still felt out of it from the flashback. Still felt the pterodactyls swarming. Eating might help, or he might just throw it all back up. A nap might help, or it might be filled with nightmares. It was always a throw of the dice.

He hurriedly sat up. "Um, hi." He dredged up a smile, but it must not have been very convincing because her own smile faded.

"Ah, what is this I see?" She immediately switched her demeanor to that of a trained medical professional as she her sharp gaze took in his shoulder and his chest. "What is wrong? Are you in pain?"

"No, not… I mean, not from the arm or anything. I mean, yeah, it hurts some—"

"Let me take a look, please."

"Look, it's not—"

She ignored him. "Does this hurt? No? And this? How about here?"

He fell silent and endured her poking and prodding, shaking his head to each of her questions.

"Lift your shoulder please."

He obediently shrugged. And winced.

"Relax, please. I do not want you straining the internal sutures."

He let his shoulder drop.

"Can you pull your shirt off, or at least up?"

He pulled it up and off the stump of his arm but not all the way over his head. She pressed lightly all around the edge of the prosthesis. "Nothing hurts here?"

"No, ma'am."

"Good. You're doing well, no sign of infection." She pulled out her stethoscope and placed the end on the ribs on his left side, near the scar left from the chest tube. "Now breathe in slowly, please."

He did, and let it out just as slowly. Stared at her scarf as he did so. It was striped this time. Red, gold, orange and green. The one before his surgery had been every color of the rainbow, in a geometric pattern of triangles and diamonds and zigzags.

"Once more, but exhale as forcefully as you can."

He obediently huffed and puffed like a dragon as she listened to various spots, front and back.

"Does breathing cause any pain at all?"

"It's all a little sore still."

She pursed her lips thoughtfully at his answer, but when she pulled out the ear pieces, she looked pleased. "It will take quite some time for both the collapsed lung and the broken ribs to stop hurting, even in someone with enhanced healing ability. The collapsed lung, however, sounds clear."

"Good," he murmured. He looked toward his feet as he readjusted his shirt.

"So, physically you are doing quite well, but tell me what else is going on. What has you so downcast?"

He sighed a little. Why do doctors always want you to _talk_ so much? "I just… um… got a lot to think about."

"From your red eyes, it seems your thoughts are not happy ones."

Damn it, he never could hide it when he'd been crying. Stupid huge eyes showed everything _._

 _"Sometimes I hate you and your stupid eyes, Buck."_

 _"What gives, pal? Ain't nothin' wrong with my eyes."_

 _"Yeah, my point exactly. I was just about to find the nerve to ask Elma Davenport if she'd like to go out for an egg cream, but before I could even open my mouth, she comes out with"-Steve raised his voice into a screechy falsetto-"'Hey Stevie, who's your friend with the dreamy eyes?'"_

Yeah, well, sometimes they came in handy. Elma had been a great gal. But god, he wished Dr. Ifede would just go _away_. He had no energy for talking about how his thoughts were as desolate as a Siberian winter and his emotions so chaotic that they kept the flying dinosaurs constantly stirred up. But refusing to talk would be incredibly rude. This woman had, after all, fixed his ruined arm, promised him a new one, brought him cookies and in general treated him with a kindness he didn't deserve. He chewed on his lip for a minute, then finally said, "Bad memory caught me with my guard down, that's all." He felt like he'd cheated her of the answer she was owed, but he was too worn out to say more.

"I am truly sorry." She tucked her stethoscope in her pocket and took his hand. "Was your friend Steven here to help you, or was this after he left to meet with the king?"

"He was here." She didn't need to know the details. He didn't plan to tell anyone, ever, how he had bawled all over Steve's shirt.

"That is a good thing, at least. You are not yet at a place where you should be alone when you feel the weight of your past pressing down."

He laughed a little more bitterly than he intended. "Been dealing with it alone for the past two years."

"Just so. But now that you have friends around you, you should not try to bear your burdens singlehandedly. If in the time you are here you feel a memory coming that you find upsetting and your friend is not available, please do not hesitate to punch that button and ask for someone to come. Our nurses, me… I daresay you could probably ask for King T'Challa himself. We are all good listeners."

Bucky nodded. Couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes, though, because he had no intention of pouring out his woes to a stranger and definitely not to a king. Hard enough baring whatever was left of his soul to Steve.

"May I ask you a question, Sergeant Barnes?"

He nodded again.

She studied him long enough to make him fidget before finally asking, very gently, "Do you ever feel like you might try to harm yourself?"

He went still. Her question really did cut to the heart of it. His eternal dilemma. In many ways, he'd always seen his battle against despair as his own to fight, no one else's, even though a part of him longed for comfort, for someone to pull him from his darkness. But to ask for help, even Steve's, would be to admit thinking he somehow _deserved_ help.

No.

He had long ago decided he needed to live with his sin instead of trying to escape through death. In many ways, fully embracing and never forgetting his guilt was the only way he could stay strong. The only way the bullet would stay in the gun. His eyes strayed to the empty chair. He also had to consider what his death would do to Steve. When he finally answered her, his words were clipped. "I do. Sometimes. But I won't. Death would be a release I don't deserve, and I can't inflict that kind of pain on Steve."

She tilted her head as she regarded him in silence. Finally, she nodded. "I see. And are you judge and jury as well as executioner of this sentence you have imposed on yourself?"

He glared at her from under lowered brows.

She wasn't the least bit fazed. "Do not think that I will feed you pablum, telling you that you are not responsible for the things you have done."

"Good, because I did them all. Every goddam one."

A faint smile. "Yes, you did do them. Or at least your body performed the motions. However, any reasonable and just legal system would rightly find you innocent."

He bit back the growling noise he felt building in his throat. What was left of the plates on his shoulder made quiet _snicking_ noises as they shifted. A small part of his mind was surprised to see he still had some movement there after all.

She reached out and ran her free hand over them, as though she were smoothing the ruffled fur of an angry cat.

He blushed. "Sorry. The arm used to… do that. When I got mad or got ready for a fight."

"So my words anger you?"

He shrugged with his right shoulder.

"Truth can make one angry, when one is not ready to hear it."

"I'm angry because it's not the truth." He tried not to growl, he really did.

"Well. Who is to say, at this early stage, whether you are right or whether I am? Far better for now to skip the trite reassurances—the pablum—and simply acknowledge that all these things happened. Good can come of it, or bad. The path is yours to choose. Your determination to live and to make amends is something to be praised and tells me you will choose the good path. As long as you stay on that course, we will help you and support you in any way we can. The only thing I ask is that you give us your total honesty and that you participate in your therapy with a spirit of cooperation and determination. We cannot help you if you hide your feelings from us, nor can we help you if you refuse to at least try. If you do not do these things, if you choose bitterness and hatred or worse, then you will be asked to leave."

His anger drained, replaced by fear. Her voice was gentle, her motives kind, but her words still stirred the HYDRA-instilled fear of reprisals if he dared even think of disobeying.

 _Breathe._

 _She won't hurt you. She's not HYDRA. Not the Russians. Not Zemo. She will_ not _hurt you. It's okay to answer. It's okay._

 _It's okay._

 _Breathe._

He realized he was gripping her hand too tightly, though she didn't flinch nor jerk her hand away. He forced himself to relax his fingers. He tried to pull his hand from hers, but she didn't let him. "Yes, ma'am," he finally whispered.

There was a long pause as she simply rubbed her thumb back and forth across his knuckles. Back and forth, slowly. Back and forth. Her breathing matched each swipe of her thumb and then he noticed his own breathing had slowed to match. Finally, she said, "This is hard for you, I can see, but all will be well."

He nodded.

"Now," she said, her tone more matter of fact, "I have arranged for you to talk to one of our best psychologists. He specializes in helping people who have had trauma in their lives. He has not seen anyone with quite your unique experience, but he has helped many refugees who have lived through wars in their countries and who have had to do horrible things to survive."

He scowled. "I'm no refugee. Those people did nothing wrong, never murdered anyone simply because they were told to. They don't carry around another guy in their head who's ready to kill on command."

She continued rubbing his knuckles. "You do indeed carry something in your head that is quite dangerous. But you also carry within you the man who has the ability to rise above it, and that is who we will help. James Buchanan Barnes, who will find his purpose in helping those who are not strong enough to help themselves. Is that not what you did once, looked after your family and your friends? Your fellow soldiers? From all I have heard and read about you, you were a fierce protector."

He nodded. Swallowed hard.

"That, then, is what you must focus on. Redemption will come, but for today, your journey starts by simply allowing James Buchanan Barnes to take one more breath. Nothing more at this point. One breath, then another, thinking no farther ahead until you have started to heal. Then you will look _two_ breaths ahead. And then three. And so on. Do you think that might be something you can do?"

It wasn't so very different than what he'd been doing all along. Breathe. Focus on the moment, on the fact that he was free and could make his own choices. Breathe. Keep the bullet in the gun. Don't look too far ahead.

This time his laugh was softer. Not at all bitter. "I've been doing that for the last two years."

"Indeed you have. It will not be easy. You above all know that your past will continue to haunt you. There will be things you will remember that will drive you to your knees in remorse and shame. But those are memories only. The sins against mankind you were forced to commit will never be repeated because, once we have freed you from the enemy lurking in your mind, you will be able to make a different choice."

He searched her eyes. It sounded so good, but fear still snaked through his belly. He thought he could trust them all, didn't think there'd be a repeat of Berlin, or at least not an _intentional_ repeat. But, what if in treating him, they said all those goddamn words… what if the doctor was perfectly innocent but unleashed the Soldier and…

He started to shake. He couldn't do this. Couldn't let anyone say those words, even if they were trying to help him. _Especially_ if they were trying to help him.

"Sergeant Barnes?"

"No. I'll hurt him." He had to force the words out through clenched teeth. "Your psychologist. I'll hurt him."

"I do not see that as a likely possibility."

He glared at her. "Then you're dangerously naïve, lady."

He saw steel in the gaze she leveled at him under one raised eyebrow. "I must beg to differ, young man. I was fully briefed on what happened in Berlin. My entire team is completely cognizant of what you are capable of, and we will take necessary precautions even as we fully respect your autonomy. Rest assured that, unlike Berlin, there are no betrayers in our midst. Our doctors will not use the words to deliberately bring out the Winter Soldier without your consent, nor will they do so without knowing how to safely bring you out of that persona before you can hurt anyone."

He wanted to laugh. _Safely bring him out of that persona_. As if it were a simple matter of snapping their fingers and hey presto, no more _Soldat_. He rubbed his face. Shut his eyes, exhausted before he'd even begun. "I don't know if I can do this."

"I understand. We are asking for an enormous amount of trust from you, and you have no reason to believe anyone when they say they will help you, not after what happened with Zemo. You must simply take a leap of faith, based on all you have seen of Wakanda thus far. Based on your trust of T'Challa. The king's heart has been pierced by your story. I know him well; he will move heaven and earth for those he calls friend."

"I don't… I don't deserve any of this."

"There are many who think otherwise. Trust in their judgment."

He took a shaking breath. He supposed there wasn't much else he could do, really. If he hoped to have even a prayer of redeeming himself, of doing more than just hiding in the shadows, lost in self-flagellation, he had to start by getting HYDRA out of his head. He needed help to do that, and it seemed these people were not afraid of the challenge. "Promise me, if it looks like you can't… if your scientists and doctors can't get…" He gestured toward his head. His voice broke a little. "I just don't want to hurt anyone anymore."

"Oh, dear heart." She actually had tears in her eyes. "I believe wholeheartedly that we will succeed, but I promise that we will ensure you cannot harm anyone, even yourself."

"Thank you." Then he let out a soft, sardonic laugh. "HYDRA would just stick me back in the freezer when I misbehaved."

"Well," she said, "that technology is not unknown to us."

He stared at her. His heart seemed to turn over with an uncomfortable thud. "What… do you mean?"

"We have a cryotherapy lab, where we have successfully frozen and thawed individuals when their illnesses became terminal. They chose to extend their lives through cryotherapy in the hopes of a future cure."

"You were able to unthaw them and cure them?"

"Some, yes. Others died of their illnesses despite new treatments, though they were successfully revived from the cryo itself. Still others remain frozen."

He felt a little stunned. No, a _lot_ stunned. Cryo. They could put him back in cryo. A part of him shrank in terror at the very idea, but another part of him seemed to uncoil and relax, as if he had finally put down a burden he had carried for too long.

"Could you… could I… choose that?"

"I think, as a last resort, yes. But only as a last resort, when all else has failed. And then only at your request, and only until we can find a new technique to try."

God. Cryo.

 _Cryo._

His emotions were zooming all over the map.

Did he want that? Could he endure the thought of again feeling the blast of deep cold, the stabbing pain of thawing, the almost drunken fog in his mind, getting dragged weak and boneless to the chair…

No. They wouldn't use a chair. Of course they wouldn't use a chair.

Would they use a chair?

The pterodactyls were in a frenzy.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

If they did use a chair… if that was the only way to rid him of HYDRA… could he endure it again? One last time? Would he prefer that to death?

Surprisingly, or maybe not so surprisingly, he knew the answer was a resounding _yes._

Death was for when there was no hope, but now he had a tiny thread of hope to hold to. Maybe it was as frail as a spider's web… but then again, that stuff the spider kid shot at him sure was strong. Maybe his fragile strand of hope was like that, stronger than it looked.

It was a strange feeling, having hope. Even if it was just having hope that someday he _might_ have hope. Painful, like someone shining a light in his eyes when he'd been locked away in a dark room. But he felt like he could adjust to it pretty quickly. It sure beat death, anyway, even if the only reason he fought off death was because was impossible to atone for past sins from the grave.

He gave her a trembling but, he hoped, grateful smile. "I don't know how I'll ever thank you, if all this really works."

"I am sure you'll come up with something." She leaned down and gave him a gentle but firm hug, then straightened back up and gave him another very stern look. "I do have one last question."

Oh god, what now. "Y-yes?"

She frowned as she looked down her nose at him. "Have you pissed and farted?"

His jaw dropped. "Uh… what?"

"Do you not understand my question, or do you stutter because you think me too refined to use such terms?"

He wasn't sure if it was okay to laugh at her or not, the way her eyebrow was arched like that, but he couldn't help himself. "I know what you meant, and, well, yeah. In my day, nice dames like you didn't talk like that."

"I assure you that I am not, as you put it, a dame from your day, nice or otherwise. I am a doctor, and I need an answer."

"Yes. Yes, ma'am, I have done both."

"I'm very glad to hear it." Her stern demeanor finally broke and she laughed. "I'll have them bring you a meal—not traditional spicy Wakandan fare like we gave your friend, but a simple chicken soup with clear broth, until we are sure your digestive system is up and running as it should be."

Oh god, not bland chicken water. Spicy soup sounded a hell of a lot better. "I'm sure the spicy version will be just fine. The cookies went down okay."

"Yes, but the cookies did not have cayenne pepper in them."

He sighed in defeat.

"Provided all goes well, you can decide if you'll stay the night here or move to the apartment we have for you. It is still part of this hospital complex, with medical personnel on hand, but it has all the amenities one has in an actual home. We have found such an environment speeds healing."

"Will I live by myself?"

"If you wish. If you'd like Steven to stay with you, there is an extra bedroom, or if needed, there is another suite with one bedroom. I do not know the nature of your relationship with Steven, so…" She raised the eyebrow again.

"No, nothing like that. We'd need separate bedrooms." But he didn't know if he wanted Steve living with him. He was used to living alone. And Steve might be bothered by his sometimes noisy nightmares. "I'll have to talk to Steve about it."

"Of course." She patted his hand. "In the meantime, eat, and do not fret nor harbor any doubts. In time you will be well—body, mind and soul. But for now, simply breathe."

In the silence that fell after the door closed behind her, he took a deep breath and let it slowly out. He had so much to think about, but he pushed it all out of his mind and concentrated on breathing.

 _In._

 _Out._

 _Slowly… in… slowly… out…_

The future might hold an uninterrupted path forward. Or it might hold a return to cryo first. There was no way to know. But in the meantime, a meal was coming, the pterodactyls had resumed their uneasy sleep, and he could breathe more freely than he had in a very long time.

He could live with that.

 _tbc..._

-o0o- _  
_

 _egg cream -_ a beverage consisting of milk, carbonated water, and chocolate syrup. The drink contains neither eggs nor cream. - wikipedia


	13. Chapter 13

Bucky cautiously sniffed the bowl of chicken water. Smelled like chicken, so that was good. Might have some onion in it. But mostly it just smelled bland. He sighed and tried a spoonful. It tasted about how he expected, maybe _slightly_ better, but it needed salt and pepper. He patted around the tray, lifting the napkin and scooting the cup of coffee out of the way, searching for little packets.

Nothing. No salt or pepper.

Damn it. How can salt and pepper be bad for the digestion? It's just salt and pepper. Not like he wanted to add hot sauce and jalapeños to it.

Steve returned as Bucky listlessly lifted up another spoonful, this one including a little cube of carrot. Steve's grim expression was enough to halt Bucky's hand only halfway to his mouth. He very carefully lowered the spoon back into the bowl. "It's bad."

Steve blinked, then looked at the bowl. "Really? That surprises me."

"Not the soup. Whatever news T'Challa had. It's bad. I can tell by the look on your face."

"Oh. Well," Steve paused and scratched hard at his scalp, then ran his hand over his hair to smooth it back down. "Yes and no."

Bucky waited.

"The team's alive. All of them."

"That's good news," Bucky said cautiously. He knew there was a 'but' coming.

"They're also in the Raft."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"What do we do?"

"'We' don't do anything. Or at least, you don't. You stay here and continue to recuperate. I'll be going to get them out."

Bucky narrowed his eyes. "By yourself."

Steve nodded.

"Alone."

Another nod.

"Without any back-up?"

A shrug.

Bucky bit back _not without me you flagless, shieldless idiot_ and settled for a terse, "How?"

"Haven't figured that out yet. Gonna meet with King T'Challa again in about two hours. He's meeting me here, in fact, partly to see you."

The pterodactyls suddenly fluttered, but Bucky didn't say anything.

"He only had enough time to give me the bare basics of the situation before he had to attend to his nation's business. Wakanda understandably takes priority."

"I can see where it would." Bucky stirred his soup. Took another bite. The carrots were a disappointment. _Easily digestible_ apparently meant they were cooked down to mushy orange cubes of sadness.

Steve threw himself into the chair, pulled a flash drive out of his pocket and plugged it into a tablet computer he pulled from underneath the book he'd been reading. Within moments he was lost in whatever information was on the drive.

Bucky took another mouthful of soup, watching him. He swallowed, carefully wiped his mouth, and pushed the bed table back so he could sit on the side of the bed. "So. About you doing this alone..."

Steve didn't even look up. "No, Bucky."

"Look, at least hear me out."

"No."

"But I can help wi—"

"No."

"Damn it, I'm not an invalid. I can still—"

He finally fixed a stern gaze on him. "Bucky. No. You're in no kind of shape for a mission like this."

Bucky scowled. "Fine. Okay. I get it, the only thing that puts me anywhere close to your superhero strength is probably mounted on the wall in Tony Stark's office now, but—"

"You pack a lethal punch without it. Don't sell yourself short."

"Okay then, if it's the surgery, the incisions will likely be healed by the time we leave. Definitely by the time we get to the Raft."

"Bucky—"

"They will. I may not heal as fast as you, but—"

Steve's voice could have cut steel. "Bucky! It's not the arm, all right?"

Bucky gaped at him for a full five seconds, then dropped his gaze down to his feet. A knot, cold and hard and furious, tightened in his chest.

 _Damn you, HYDRA. Damn you, Barnes, for being weak and stupid and useless…_

"Damn it," Steve murmured, finally breaking the heavy silence. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it to sound so—"

"No. It's not you… I mean, you're right. I, um…" He cleared his throat. Took a deep breath and buried his fury down where Steve wouldn't see it and think it was aimed at him. God knew it wasn't aimed at Steve. He wasn't sure who it was aimed at. HYDRA? Himself? Fate? All three, but definitely not Steve. Never Steve. "I, uh, I don't trust my mind, either." He let out a hollow laugh. "For all I know, SHIELD, HYDRA, and that flock of white birds we saw know those trigger words and two dozen more besides. Somebody shuttin' me down with a word or phrase, right in the middle of a fight… yeah. It'd go pear-shaped at the worst time, probably. You're right." God, he wanted… needed… to punch something.

"I'm still sorry."

Bucky blinked a few times, then risked a quick glance at Steve before studying his feet once more. "So, uh, I guess the question is what _can_ I do, besides say, 'There, there, it'll be all right'? Not that I won't do that." He finally looked Steve in the eye. "You let me slobber all over your shirt, figure it's the least I can do in return."

"Hey, don't knock the power of a good 'there, there'. I'm not exactly the paragon of virtue and heroism I was when I went into the ice." He grinned, but it was more than a little rueful. "I can use all the sympathy I can get these days."

"There, there, then. Here, have a cracker." He tossed a saltine at him and just like that, the tension eased and it was okay. It was good. For now, at least.

Steve bit into the cracker, moodily chewing as he stared into space.

"You sure you have to do this all by yourself?"

"I'm not letting any of T'Challa's people assist me in a crime of this magnitude."

Bucky couldn't fault him for that. "T'Challa gonna let the team hide out here?"

"Yeah, he assured me he would offer them asylum."

"Good."

Steve nodded, but continued staring into space. Bucky could almost hear the wheels and gears turning as the Man With No Plan tried to figure out one.

Out of any other ideas to offer, Bucky stood up and slowly walked to the bathroom. If they were going to entertain a king, he better make himself a little more presentable. He was still a little unsteady on his feet; why, he wasn't sure, but he suspected it was blood loss during surgery. Or lack of food. A few bites of bland chicken water with sad mushy carrots was not a proper meal for a fugitive super soldier. He felt all right otherwise, though. Just a lot more sore and feeble than he was used to. Glitchy brain aside, he was too weak to help Steve, probably. He again chased away the dark thought that he'd never be a help to anyone.

He flipped on the light as he shut the door. Nothing about it had changed from his last visit when he had pissed and farted per the doc's orders. Still just a standard bathroom: white porcelain tile walls and floor, a toilet, sink, shower stall, mirror, chrome fittings. Faint aroma of bleach. A chain hung from the wall near the toilet. Beside it hung a little sign that told him he could pull on it if he needed assistance. He grimaced. He might be too messed up to help Steve, but he was pretty sure he could still wipe his own ass.

Last trip in here he'd avoided looking in the mirror, but this time he studied his reflection. He had a cut across the bridge of his nose, a large abrasion and bruising on the side of his face where Stark had kicked him, a cut on his left eyebrow and another up by his hairline, all in various stages of healing. Pale skin, and such dark shadows under his eyes he thought for a minute he was wearing his camouflage paint. He rubbed his jaw. Needed a shave pretty badly, too.

He turned away from his image and sniffed his armpit. "God almighty," he muttered. He smelled like a locker room that hadn't been cleaned in fourteen years. He looked at the showerhead longingly, but he wasn't sure he was allowed. He hadn't thought to ask and he knew you weren't supposed to get sutures wet. He wasn't sure how deeply internal the internal sutures were.

So no shower.

Still, he couldn't stop staring at the washcloth, towel and a bar of soap sitting so enticingly on a ledge in the shower stall.

He could probably just take a sponge bath at the sink, but a weak, piddly-ass sponge bath wouldn't begin to touch the grime he felt caking his skin.

Screw it. He was taking a shower. The showerhead was the kind that had the long hose, so surely he could keep it aimed away from his left arm.

He turned on the tap, taking a guess at how far to move the lever to get hot water, and while he waited for the water to warm up, he took a good look at what was left of the metal arm. The skin was swollen where it joined the metal, but Dr. Ifede had been pleased with it, so he had to assume it was just bruised from the surgery. He felt around the edges of the black cap and tried lifting one edge, just to peek under it. Unfortunately the whole thing popped off instead. "Shit," he muttered and tried to put it back on, but every time he'd get one side on, the other would come off. "Damn it, damn it, damn it."

He'd just have to be extra careful in the shower. Keep the water on his right, hope no water splashed into the dim recesses of his arm and into his body. He wondered what would happen if he got soapy shower water inside of him in places where it shouldn't be. He couldn't imagine good things would come of it.

With the cap was off, he saw that all the jagged, burnt bits were filed smooth and shining. He tried to raise what was left of the arm so he look inside it in the mirror. A few of the plates shifted, but the arm itself didn't raise up. He had to settle on going by feel. He carefully ran his fingers over the opening. Best as he could tell, all the wiring inside the arm was capped off like Steve had done, but neatly coiled and tucked in so they didn't dangle. He carefully poked his finger past the wires as far as it would reach, but felt only emptiness. For all he knew, if he could reach back far enough he'd poke himself in the lung.

Definitely be careful with the shower hose.

He hung the arm cap on a hook on the back of the door, then tested the water temperature. Just right. He stripped down and, as much as he wanted to immediately step under the spray, he limited himself to lathering up and scrubbing himself down while still standing outside the shower stall. His face he carefully washed while looking in the mirror. Didn't want to loosen up any of the scabs.

His hair, though, was a problem. It was lank and greasy and probably still had dried blood throughout it. Much as he wanted to shampoo it, he wasn't sure he could do it without getting the arm wet. Maybe a nurse could help him with it or something. Or Steve could do it while he was staring into space trying to come up with his plan.

He grabbed the shower hose, took it down and stepped into the little enclosure. Rinsing went quickly, even with taking care not to get his left shoulder and arm wet. He re-inserted the hose in its holder, keeping his left side out of the spray while he rinsed his right arm and side.

Then he simply stood and enjoyed the warm water against his skin.

There was a little stool in the corner, so he again pulled off the hose and sat down. He tilted his head back against the wall, aimed the water at his stomach and basked in the steam and warm water flowing down his lower body and legs. He shut his eyes.

So warm… _Soldat_ had always been cold, horribly cold. Warmth was something he had yet to take for granted.

He stretched out his legs. Let out a deep sigh.

Wouldn't mind staying here forever...

...

...

...

His hand slackened and the shower head fell to the floor, landing between his legs, where it woke him up by blasting its spray of water straight into his face. "Shit," he spluttered and kicked the sprayer to the side as he reached out to slap the tap off.

"Bucky, you okay in there?"

"Yeah," he called, wincing a little. That sudden jerk had tweaked his sore ribs, but a careful deep breath assured him it was just a twinge and nothing worse. He checked the metal arm. It was a little wet on the outside, but from what he could tell, no water had gotten inside it. His hair was soaked, though.

Might as well finish the job.

He grabbed the shampoo bottle (that also included conditioner, he was pleased to see) and pried open the top with his teeth. It smelled faintly of pine trees, which seemed odd for a country surrounded by jungle. He squeezed shampoo all over his head, put the bottle back on the ledge and then worked the shampoo into a lather. At least he was used to washing his hair with just one hand; he never liked getting hair caught in the metal joints of his left hand. He dug his fingers into his scalp, scratching all the itchy spots and loosening a surprising amount of dried blood and who the hell knew what else.

When he figured his hair and scalp were as clean as they were going to get, he carefully took the shower hose, held it between his knees so it pointed toward his feet, then slapped the water lever back on. Blazing hot water blasted his toes, making him flinch and come perilously close to repeating the water-in-the-face act all over again, but he grabbed the falling hose just in time. He pushed the faucet back toward cold. Once the water wasn't boiling nor frigid, he bent over and twisted so his left shoulder was facing up to allow the water to drip harmlessly down his right shoulder as he ran the hose all over his head. It was awkward as hell, hurt his ribs, and, by the time he finished, made him well and truly dizzy from holding his head upside down and sideways. But he finally had a clean head of hair, and he didn't think any shampoo had dripped through the arm into any internal organs.

A win for Barnes.

He stood up, shut off the water and jerked his head to flip his hair out of his face and down his back.

Bad move. White tile spun around him like a ceramic centrifuge. He fell against the wall as he blindly grabbed the faucet handle to hang onto until everything slowed and stopped. When the vertigo finally passed, it left him with shaking knees and a stomach that threatened to toss those three spoonfuls of chicken water right back up where they came from. He groaned a little and carefully lowered himself onto the little stool.

He felt like crap. So much for the win.

Time passed. Risk of a chicken water redux retreated.

He started to shiver, sitting all wet in the rapidly cooling bathroom, so he grabbed the towel and dried himself off. When he was finished, he stayed where he was until he caught his breath. It took far longer than he liked.

Yeah, if a shower exhausted him this badly, he had no business going with Steve.

"Damn it," he sighed. He dragged himself to his feet, dried the parts he'd been sitting on, and struggled back into his clothes. He admitted defeat, though, at the prospect of wrestling on the shoes. Hopefully greeting a king while shoeless wasn't some huge breach of Wakandan etiquette. A final swipe of the brush through his hair (god, his _face_ ; he was so pale he looked _green_ ) and that was as good as it was gonna get. He grabbed the arm cap as he opened the door.

He emerged feeling a new man.

Okay, that was a bald-faced lie. A new man wouldn't feel like such a steaming pile of shit.

Steve smiled as he shuffled into the room. "Now there's an improvement."

Dear god, what must he have looked like before? He handed Steve the cap. "Do me a favor, put this on for me?"

Steve slipped it over the arm. "There you go."

"Thanks."

Steve put a hand on his shoulder. "You're a little pale. Everything okay?"

"I'm okay. Just a little tired." Determined not to let Steve see how close he was to collapse, he walked to the window and parted the curtain. Dusk was falling and a few lights were blinking on in the buildings below. He didn't look toward the panther statue. He let the curtain fall shut and then eased himself into the room's other chair. Sitting down, he started to feel a little better. "You got a plan yet?"

"I've got about 12 percent of a plan."

Bucky frowned. "12 percent? How the hell you figure you got 12 percent of a plan?"

"I don't. It's an inside joke, something between Tony and Pepper…" His voice trailed away.

"Who's Pepper?"

"Tony's girlfriend. Or maybe former girlfriend. It's complicated."

Bucky couldn't care less about Tony Stark's love life, complicated or otherwise. "So does this 12 percent tell you how you're going to actually get into the prison? Last I knew, you being a super soldier didn't give you gills. Unless you got an upgrade you haven't told me about." He leaned forward and grabbed Steve's ear to look behind it.

Steve swiped his hand away. "Knock it off, jerk. I don't have gills. But I do have security codes." He tapped the flash drive. "Nat hacked them, slipped them to Sharon who slipped them to T'Challa, all on this flash drive. Also got the Raft's specs on it: floor plan, alarm systems, personnel and prisoner lists… all the information I'm likely to need, hopefully."

"They both okay? Didn't get fired? Or arrested?"

"No, they're fine. Nat's gone to ground somewhere and Sharon was able to keep her part in all of this completely off Ross' radar. She's good at what she does. Really good."

Bucky gave him a sly smile. "So you gonna ask her out for an egg cream?"

Steve laughed, but his ears turned red. "You remember that?"

"Elma Davenport."

"Who ditched me for you and your bug eyes."

Bucky batted his eyelashes at him. "I believe her description was 'dreamy', not 'bug'."

"No, I'm pretty sure she called you a bug-eyed creep."

Bucky frowned. "Really? Was I a creep?" Maybe he had been a real cad back then and just didn't remember. He was starting to doubt everything he thought he knew about himself when he noticed Steve's shit-eating grin. "Making fun of a brain-damaged amnesiac's inability to remember, seriously? Asshole move, Rogers."

He just grinned wider. "Aw, c'mon, Buck. You don't really want me to put on the kid gloves and wrap you in bubble wrap, do you?"

He wasn't sure what bubble wrap was, but it must be something protective. "Yes." But he couldn't keep up the indignant act. "You're still a damned punk, Rogers. Even after all this time."

"Yeah, well, you're still a je—"

The door opened before he could finish and a very tall, very fierce woman in a tight-fitting dress and very high heels strode in. Her icy gaze swept the room. She barely glanced at Steve, but her glare stopped on Bucky and left him feeling like a bug pinned to a board. Steve scrambled to his feet, but Bucky was afraid if he so much as twitched she'd break him in half. Then he saw T'Challa come in right behind her. He was dressed in a sober navy suit with white shirt and a dark silk tie, and draped over the tie and lapels was a necklace of some sort of teeth. He looked every bit the king of a powerful nation who could also rip your head off. Bucky was glad he'd taken a shower, but he was acutely aware he was dressed only in white pants and a t-shirt and had dripping wet hair and bare feet. For some reason, the phrase 'prince and the pauper' flashed through his head.

T'Challa nodded to Steve, smiled at Bucky, then murmured in the woman's ear. She held Bucky's gaze for a moment longer, then nodded curtly and left.

Bucky regained the use of his lungs in an embarrassingly shaky sigh.

T'Challa laughed. "I apologize, Sergeant Barnes. Ayo does not yet trust that the Winter Soldier hibernates."

"Oh. Uh. Okay." Bucky wanted to crawl in a hole and hide.

T'Challa seemed to sense his unease, because he smiled. "I have no such qualms," he said as he came over with his hand extended. Bucky shook it. T'Challa had a firm grip, and he didn't immediately release Bucky's hand. "How are you?"

"I, uh, I'm fine."

"Do not lie to a king."

"I'm… better."

"That is honest. Thank you." He released Bucky's hand and turned to Steve. "Have you briefed him?"

"As much as I know, he knows. Which isn't really much. I'm still studying the plans." He waved a hand at the computer tablet sitting on the table.

"Will he go with you?"

Bucky said, "Yes" at the same time as Steve emphatically said, "No!"

T'Challa looked amused. "There seems to be a difference of opinion."

"He's not coming with me." A glare silenced Bucky's protest. "He won't have recovered that soon."

T'Challa turned to Bucky. "Is this accurate?"

Bucky grimaced, but he nodded. "Yeah. I want to, but I can't trust my mind yet." _Weak and stupid and useless…_

"Hopefully we can help you with that, so you can assist your friend on future missions. But do not fret because you are unable to go on this one. Captain Rogers will have help." He nodded to Steve. "I will send Aneka with you. She is the head trainer of the Dora Milaje and a worthy warrior."

"I can't ask her to come. What I'm about to do is illegal in just about every nation on the planet."

"Incarceration without due process is illegal in _this_ nation and should be everywhere. She will accompany you."

"I don't wish to argue with you, but I'll do this better on my own."

" _Thanks, Buck, but I can get by on my own…"_

Bucky rolled his eyes. Still as stubborn as always. "Steve. This ain't me asking you to sleep on my couch. Take the king's help."

T'Challa smiled. "Again, I am impressed by your friend's wisdom, Captain Rogers. I suggest you heed his words."

Steve didn't look happy, but he nodded. "All right. Where do I find her?"

"She is waiting for you in the lobby downstairs. Please go to her now, for I would have a few words alone with your friend here."

"Of course," Steve said. He shook the king's hand, gave Bucky a reassuring nod and left him alone with the king of Wakanda.

 _Damn, he wished he'd put his shoes on…_

 _tbc…_

-o0o-

 _Author's note: Again, many thanks to all guest reviewers, and for those of you in the US, have a happy Thanksgiving!_

 _Ayo is, of course, in CACW and the comics, and Aneka is a character in the current Black Panther comic run. That comic run's storyline is beyond the scope of this one, however, and events from it will not necessarily translate into this story (and who knows if they'll make it into the Black Panther movie). Which is all I'll say because spoilers for the comics._


	14. Chapter 14

_**A/N: again thanks to all the guest reviewers, and bluetigress, I did see your story idea and will tuck it away for future exploration. Thanks for the suggestion! Also, to the guest reviewer concerned with my using the Lord's name in vain: it's always a fine line, but I have to write true to how I see the character, and he does cuss. A lot. Outright in the MCU and a lot of "#*( &#!" in the comics when the curses are beyond what the comic book audience should see. I don't use the Lord's name in vain myself, but this is an adult story about Bucky, not me. Hopefully you won't be too put off by it but I understand if you decide to stop reading. Each person must make their own choices. **_

_**Onward now to the chapter…**_

-o0o-

As the door shut softly behind Steve, worry and doubt started to cast shadows across Bucky's mind. He had allowed the survival instincts that he'd been honing from the darkest hours after DC to go quiet, but now, alone with T'Challa for the first time, they roared back to life with gut-twisting fury. But he kept his tone light as he said, "Maybe you should bring Ayo back in. Just in case."

T'Challa stayed where he was. "Do _you_ think the Soldier will come out of hibernation?"

"I honestly don't know." Only a partial truth. The Soldier might stay dormant, but he couldn't guarantee that James Buchanan Barnes wouldn't tear into T'Challa if the king gave any indication he wasn't an ally, that this was anything other than a friendly meeting.

"Will it set your mind at ease if I promise to say nothing in Russian?"

"You speak Russian?"

"I studied many languages at Oxford."

From what Steve had told him about Wakanda, Bucky figured that the only things that had ever drawn T'Challa out of his own country were the bombing in Lagos and the signing of the Accords. Guess not. Bucky wasn't exactly up on how many languages Oxford offered to students, but it was probably at least as many as HYDRA had stuffed in his own head. Not that it mattered. T'Challa might stumble on a trigger word or eight in English or Urdu or sign language, for all he knew. But short of never allowing anyone to ever speak to him again, there wasn't much he could do about it. "Let the interrogation begin, then." Might as well call a spade a spade from the outset.

"Is that what you think this is, an interrogation?"

Bucky shrugged. He couldn't decide if his sudden fear was justified or an overreaction triggered by the fact that nearly every meeting in the last few days had turned combative. From the way Steve questioned him in his Bucharest apartment to Zemo's treachery in Berlin to the moment he woke up with his arm clamped in a machine in a warehouse, they all started with hard questions and ended with pain. " _It always ends in a fight…"_

Why should this be any different? Because he and T'Challa had shared a heartfelt moment in Siberia? Because T'Challa appeared to be an ally? Because Steve trusted him? HYDRA had taught Bucky all about hiding agendas beneath a facade of friendship and peace. Steve himself had been duped right along with all of SHIELD; he might not have learned the lesson to question everything.

Damn it, he _wanted_ to believe T'Challa had been honest about friendship, but he realized he had no idea what might have happened between then and now. Stark might have talked T'Challa back into taking his side of this shit show. T'Challa's own advisers might be getting cold feet, might be telling him to hand the Winter Soldier back to SHIELD or the UN or whoever the hell were supposed to be the good guys now. Bucky knew how much stock to put today in what men said yesterday, and it wasn't enough to buy a bowl of soup in 1935.

T'Challa took off his suit coat and carefully draped it across the foot of the bed, then he loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He left the tooth necklace on but removed some very expensive-looking cuff links and dropped them in his pants pocket. Rolled up both sleeves to mid forearm.

 _His handler pulled off his suit coat. Didn't wait to roll up his sleeves before backhanding Bucky hard against his right cheek and jaw. Bucky's head jerked to the side. He saw stars and tasted blood…_

Bucky swallowed. Was T'Challa going to skip the verbal part, go straight to punches? That's how it usually went…

 _Stop it, Barnes. T'Challa's not going to do that._

But what if he was? What if all of this was an elaborate ruse to capture Bucky, get him in better shape, sell him back to the Russians or whatever was left of HYDRA…

Bucky lowered his head a little. He cautiously moved his elbow back. Tensed his core muscles. Planted his feet.

 _Push off against the chair in a swift lunge to my feet, sweep the chair up and at T'Challa. Three steps to the door. Deal with Ayo the best I can…_

T'Challa tilted his head, frowning a little, and put both hands deep in his pockets as he leaned against the bed. As a move of non-aggression, it could have tamed the wildest panther. But Bucky was no panther. He knew how adept men were at lying. He deliberately slowed his breathing. His hand tightened on the arm of the chair.

"I am not going to hurt you, Sergeant Barnes. No one here will hurt you or betray you. If you wish to leave, you may."

Bucky wanted to believe him, but instinct was taking over. He struggled to think like the cold sniper he was, to calmly assess, breathe quietly, control his heart rate. Trouble was, his heart was having none of it. It continued hammering like it was trying to beat itself silly against his sternum.

T'Challa crossed his feet at the ankles. Lowered his shoulders. Assumed as non-combative a stance as any man could. Given the whole Black Panther thing, Bucky half expected him to start purring.

He searched T'Challa's eyes. Saw nothing but the same look of kindness he had given Bucky back in Russia.

Maybe…

 _Come on, Barnes. Steve trusts him. Yeah, the punk got duped by HYDRA, but surely he's wiser now because of it. You can trust Steve, so you can trust T'Challa. Hell, you called him a friend yourself not two days ago. Now you're gonna let yourself go all paranoid and attack him?_

God, Bucky hated his brain.

He loosened his grip on the arm of the chair. "I'm sorry."

T'Challa nodded. "It is understandable that you would be fearful, given your history and of course the majority of our interactions. I realize it will take more time to overcome your suspicions and build a trusting relationship between us, but I am being as truthful as I know how when I say that I am here to help you. I will not hurt you, nor allow any of my people to hurt you. Unless, of course, you become the aggressor."

"I… don't plan to."

"I am glad to hear it." He waved toward what Bucky was starting to think of as Steve's chair. "May I?"

Bucky nodded.

He sat down and crossed his left leg over his right knee. He smiled. "As I said, Sergeant Barnes, this is no interrogation. This is simply two friends—two acquaintances, perhaps is more accurate—sitting down to get to know one another better."

Sitting so close to the elegantly dressed man, Bucky became more aware than ever of his bare feet. He tried to tuck them under his chair, which felt ridiculous. So he put his left on top of his right. Even more ridiculous. He finally straightened them both flat on the cool tile.

T'Challa observed all his fidgeting, then asked, "Do you mind if I slip off my shoes as well?"

Bucky was too startled to answer.

"I will take that as permission," T'Challa said. He uncrossed his leg, bent over and untied both shoes. He toed them off and kicked them over toward the bed. "I despise dress shoes. They are necessary, but I do believe one of my first acts as king may be issuing a decree that all such shoes must have padded insoles." He wiggled his black-socked toes. "You have the right idea, my friend." He pulled out his cell phone. "My next question: would you like some dinner? I haven't eaten all day."

"Dr. Ifede said—"

"I am not asking what the good doctor ordered you to eat. I am asking if you'd like some dinner. Real food. Not the bowl of barely-flavored hot water that overly cautious doctors serve up as a post-surgical first meal. I am confident you and your super-soldier stomach can handle real Wakandan fare, despite what Dr. Ifede may say. Mind you, she is the best doctor in Wakanda and likely the entire world, and caution has its place, but she is unaccustomed to super soldiers' appetites."

Bucky slowly smiled as the last coiled spring of tension in the pit of his stomach relaxed. "In her defense, she did let me have some chocolate chip cookies."

"You jest!"

"Nope."

"She is obviously getting soft in her old age. I remember breaking my arm as a young boy; she did not allow me so much as a stick of candy."

Bucky tilted his head and shrugged his good shoulder. "One of my superpowers must be my puppy-dog eyes." He made his eyes as large and sad as he knew how.

T'Challa roared with laughter. "If that is the look you gave her, I am amazed she stood firm on the matter of soup. Now tell me, and you needn't inflict that gaze on me again, now or ever, what you would like to eat."

Bucky grinned. "Whatever you're having is fine."

T'Challa tapped in a number, rattled off something in Wakandan, then said in English, "Yes. The royal care suite. No, no, no. I am fine, truly. My friend is here, recovering from surgery. Yes, that friend. No, I do not think he is allergic to anything…" He cocked an eyebrow at Bucky.

Bucky shook his head.

"No, no allergies." T'Challa said into the phone. He listened for a bit, hummed some affirmative noises, then flicked a warm glance at Bucky. "He seems to be doing well, yes, thank you for asking. And yes, he enjoyed the biscuits immensely." After a few more words in Wakandan, he hung up. "A repast fit for a king will be arriving shortly. And my chef wishes you the best."

"Tell him thanks."

"I will. Knowing him, he will be up here delivering the food himself, in order to meet you. He likes to know for whom he is preparing meals. And he has a love of all things American."

"Not sure I'm still American."

"I trust that you are, at your core. You will discover it yourself more each day as you remember your old life. Your real life."

Bucky nodded.

"So." T'Challa laced his fingers together over his stomach. "I am not one for politics, nor am I one for idle small talk, so I suggest we dispense with discussing whether it will rain or not tonight. I have some questions for you, and I am sure you have questions of your own for me. With your permission, I would like to take first turn."

"Go ahead."

"You may feel free to decline to answer, of course."

Bucky nodded.

"How much of your old life _do_ you remember?"

The king didn't beat around the bush, Bucky'd give him that. "I don't really know how much. I mean, I might say I remember half of it, but then if I remember a bunch more of it tomorrow, then it might turn out that 'half' was really more like 'a third' or something."

"That is a fair point. I could not, after all, say what percentage of my own childhood I remember. Let me rephrase, then: do you remember _any_ of your childhood?"

"Some. It's all in glimpses. Little snatches here and there. I remember some stuff about Brooklyn. The smells of the building we lived in. Some of the neighbors. The time I slid down the bannister rail and fell off and knocked my front tooth out when I was seven. I remember sitting at the table for dinner every night. That I had three sisters, one of them named Becca. Can't remember the other two's names. Can't put a face to my father, though I can remember what my mother looked like, a little. Mostly I remember her voice, still hear her yelling at me if I'm about to do something I shouldn't."

T'Challa smiled, but he didn't interrupt.

"I remember the day Steve's family moved in. Becoming his friend. Helping him steal pies and climb trees. Protecting him when bullies picked on him or when he bit off more than he could chew tryin' to protect a girl from jerks. Takin' care of him when he got sick, which was a lot back then." He took a deep breath. "We did everything together. My ma used to say if she didn't know any better, she'd swear Steve really was my little brother."

"So you are older than Steven?"

"By about a year, little more. I was born in March of 1917, Steve in July of 1918."

"Remarkable. One wonders what the odds are that two such close friends would end up still alive and young some 70 years after last seeing one another."

Bucky studied his hand. He missed not having his metal hand. Not that he was a hand wringer, but… he was a hand wringer. He stuffed his right hand under his leg. "Yeah. Crazy odds, except…"

"Yes?"

"HYDRA targeted me, had to have, probably from the very beginning of Project Rebirth. They were watching for me, maybe even hunting me, I don't know. My first capture was pretty much bad luck. They got a big chunk of my whole unit, after all. I mighta stayed under their radar, but I got sick shortly after they rounded us up. Some kinda chest infection, maybe pneumonia. They dragged me off to the isolation ward." He paused, buried the panicky feeling the memory stirred up. "That's when they learned my name. Maybe if I'd known Steve was Captain America, I mighta ditched my dog tags, gave a fake name, but at that point, I didn't have any reason to think I had any kinda special connection with Captain America. I thought Steve was back in Brooklyn, safe. But I'm sure they had a dossier on him, probably memorized every fact about him. They'd know James Buchanan Barnes was practically his brother."

T'Challa shifted, leaned forward, listening intently. "And of course they would try to exploit that."

Bucky nodded. "My guess is when they figured out who I was, it musta been like Christmas for them. I remember…" He cleared his throat. "I remember at first, they didn't single me out. They tossed me in with all the other sick prisoners, just another American GI. They hadn't even bothered looking at my dog tags. Probably were supposed to, but they were lazy, I guess. Arnim Zola, the scientist who did all the experiments on prisoners, would come through each day, point at some of the guys that were still sort of on their feet, and they'd take them away to some other part of the prison. We'd never see 'em again. The rest of 'em, the ones like me that were too sick to do anything but lie there, they just let die. No food, very little water, no medicine. I figured my ticket was punched, you know? But then the third day I was there, Zola stopped at my cot. Stared at me for the longest time, like he thought I looked familiar. Then asked me for my name and since I didn't have a reason why not, I told him." He shivered, remembering the little man's absolutely terrifying glee.

" _Name, prisoner."_

 _Bucky barely had the breath to speak, but he mumbled, "Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. 32557038…"_

" _Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes!_ _So it is you after all._ _I am so very glad to see you."_

" _What?"_

" _We have been hoping to find you, Sergeant Barnes, and here you are."_

 _Light glinted off the little man's glasses, making it impossible for Bucky to read his eyes, but he saw the odd smile on the man's face, and it shook him to the core. Still, he glared up at him. "Go to hell."_

"You need not continue," T'Challa said softly.

Bucky blinked. "No, it's… I'm okay. The guards hauled me off to the other part of the prison. Zola stuffed me full of medicine and I got better real quick, too quick probably. Dunno what the stuff was, but it worked. But then he started puttin' other stuff in me, experimenting, I guess, with different kinds of serum like Steve's. He also used some kinda shock thing, this helmet that fit over my head, covered half my face. Sent electricity through my brain. Hurt like hell, scrambled up all my thoughts, made me lose sight of who I was. Of course, later on, after my second capture, they used something like it to wipe me after they dragged me outta cryo to get ready for a mission. But Zola started it."

T'Challa looked both horrified and furious. "Man's inhumanity... it sickens me. I am truly sorry for what you went through. You need not go on if you it is too painful for you."

"No, I'm fine, really. Kinda helps, telling you about it, to be honest." He took a couple of breaths, then continued. "That was pretty much all, the first time around, because Steve showed up and rescued me—rescued my whole unit. I didn't know until Steve dragged me off Zola's table that _he_ was Captain America. I thought for a minute I was hallucinating, seeing my buddy so much bigger and taller. Anyway, we escaped, barely, and I knew something about me was different, but I kept it hidden. Didn't want Steve to send me stateside, which was the worst damn decision I ever made. I stayed and then fell from the train. Shoulda died in the fall, but Zola had done just enough to me to somehow let me survive the fall. Let them finally turn Captain America's best guy into his worst enemy." He fell silent. He didn't like thinking about it. Didn't like thinking that his friendship with Steve left him vulnerable. Left _Steve_ vulnerable. Left the entire damn world vulnerable.

After a thoughtful pause, T'Challa said, "I have a friend from childhood, a boy from my tribe, the son of my father's close friend. There have been times when attempts have been made on his life because he was important to me, and so therefore important to my father. It is a risky thing, to be a friend of the king, the king's son, or Captain America."

"Did you ever want to break off the friendship, for his safety's sake?"

"No. It was his choice to make, friendship or safety. He has chosen friendship, and for that I am eternally grateful."

"I wish…"

"Yes?"

"I wish none of it had ever happened. If I'd died, it woulda been better for the world and a hell of a lot easier on Steve. I did so many terrible things. After the DC fiasco, once I made sure Steve survived my attacks on him, I just wanted to hide, keep away from him. Keep away from everybody. I'm just… I'm not worth all this."

"Have you asked Captain Rogers what he thinks about that?"

Bucky shook his head. "Don't need to."

"He has already told you?"

"Yeah. Said I wasn't responsible for everything I did under HYDRA. That it wasn't me."

"And do you agree?"

"No. It sure as hell was me. What little that was still me might have been nothing more than a helpless passenger, but I did it. All of it."

"I think perhaps you should listen to your friend. I saw the change in your demeanor after Zemo spoke the trigger words. Saw the change in your fighting style. The look in your eyes. You became another person entirely from the man I chased through Bucharest. That man running across the rooftops and through the streets, stealing a motorcycle—he was _afraid_. That man did not wish to fight, but did so because he had no choice. I fought that same man at the airport, saw in his eyes the normal fear and determination of a good soldier who is simply trying to protect his captain and fight for a cause larger than himself." He paused, looking inward for a moment. "The man in Berlin, on the other hand…" He shook his head. "No, that man was _not_ the same person. I saw in his eyes only coldness. No evidence of fear, almost no evidence of humanity at all."

Bucky winced.

"I am sorry to have to say that, but I respect you enough to be completely honest. If there was a human inside you at that point, he was hardly a man who could make his own choices."

Bucky said nothing. He didn't have the words to explain how it felt to be a prisoner in your own mind, helplessly watching this… other _being_ take control of your body and make it do reprehensible things, to realize that this evil thing that had taken over was made from something he must have always had lurking inside him. He had no words to describe the horror that even now turned his insides cold and made him want to vomit.

T'Challa must have noticed his unease, for he suddenly leaned forward, his eyes full of kindness. He reached a hand. "May I?"

Bucky nodded.

T'Challa gently placed his hand on Bucky's right knee. "I am only a king, and a new one at that, but I will help you find, and _keep,_ yourself, with whatever power I can muster."

"Why?"

"Because you are a good man."

Bucky shook his head. "I'm not. I can't be. If I was, they never would've been able to make me willingly do any of those things."

"I fear you misunderstand the meaning of the word 'willingly'."

Bucky stared at the floor, not arguing because there was no point. T'Challa simply didn't understand. No one did.

"Let me ask this: do you not hear your own story? Would you, a man who is human again at last, not wish a free life for those Winter Soldiers who had been murdered?"

"They were soulless killers even before becoming Soldiers."

"All right, that may be a poor example. But had they been like you, once fighting for good but captured and turned, would you refuse to allow them a chance to find themselves again? Would you refuse them mercy?"

Bucky's eyes prickled. "No," he whispered.

"Listen, then, to your own story. And also consider this: your friend Steven needs you. I have only known him a short time, but I see that he is himself a man lost, in many ways. A man out of his time. You are his one remaining link to the world he knew. My _baba_ … excuse me, my father… once told me that when the last connection to one's childhood is severed, it brings a burden of grief that should be borne only by the very old, for they alone are strong enough to bear it. A young person who suffers that fate can too easily lose hope in a good future. Steven needs a friend like you beside him, so he will not lose hope. Please try, for his sake if not your own, to allow yourself the gift of mercy."

"I'd do anything for Steve, but I don't know if I can."

The hand on his knee tightened. "It is a journey, Sergeant Barnes. Full of valleys and shadows, but also filled with mountaintops and light. Today, you need only take the first step forward."

"You sound like Dr. Ifede."

"She is wise, so thank you. That is high praise." He gave Bucky's knee a small squeeze, then let go.

Bucky rubbed his face. Relaxed back in his seat. "You're gonna make one helluva king, your highness."

T'Challa smiled a little sadly. "I hope so. The shoes I must fill...they were very large."

"Aw, shit," he winced. "Sorry, I keep forgetting my manners half the time. I shoulda said it already, but I'm sorry for your loss. I really am."

"Thank you. It is a tragedy with which I am still coming to terms. It will take time, or so everyone assures me every time I turn around." He looked like he'd like to shut them the hell up. With his fist.

"Were you close, you and your father?"

"Very."

Silence fell. Bucky wished he had the wisdom to come up with some pithy words of comfort, but it sounded like T'Challa was done with well-meaning platitudes. "Life sure is shitty sometimes," he said instead. "Ain't no gettin' around it."

T'Challa lifted an eyebrow. "Very succinct. And probably the wisest thing anyone's said to me about it, to be honest. I believe with all my heart that my _baba_ runs free now, but my heart also misses him terribly. I grow weary of sad-eyed pats on the shoulder and mumbled assurances that time will ease my pain."

Bucky smiled a little. "If we were back in Brooklyn, I'd take you to the nearest bar to get roaring drunk, maybe pick a fight with some idiot who needed his ass kicked."

"Are you suggesting I actually do such a thing?"

Bucky shrugged. "I'd take you now, but I don't know how easy it is to find a dive bar in Wakanda."

"It is not easy, and still less so for a king to slip away to find one."

"Sometimes it must really suck to be king."

T'Challa's eyes lit with mirth. "Sometimes. But it has its perks, as you Americans say, perhaps the best being the friends you make along the way."

Bucky laughed. "Bucky Barnes, friend to the king. Who the hell would have seen that coming?"

"Who, indeed."

Bucky sobered. "Thank you. For all this. I don't know how I'll ever repay you."

"Perhaps someday, when you are well and I can slip away, I will come to New York and we can find a dive bar and get roaring drunk together."

"That's a damn promise, your highness."

 _tbc..._


	15. Chapter 15

They continued chatting, covering everything from the current political situation in Wakanda (stable but it was early days in his reign yet; any dissenters were quiet during the period of mourning) to, bizarrely, the best place to get schnitzel in Vienna (Leopoldauer Alm, according to T'Challa, but even better than the schnitzel was their Schlacht-Pfanne or Slaughter Pan, which was a plate full of choice Austrian sausages; T'Challa admitted with a smile that he had developed a taste for sausage while in Europe). Bucky had no idea about any of it, since, contrary to all those bomb-setting accusations, the only time he had spent in Vienna was when he passed through on the way to Bucharest in fall of 2015. He hadn't exactly been looking for fine dining establishments. "I know a guy in Bucharest who makes excellent _mititei_ , though. That's a kind of sausage everyone eats over there. He's a street vendor on—"

A discreet knock on the door interrupted before he could name the street. The door opened a few inches and Ayo's voice floated through. "Excuse me, your majesty, but your dinner is here."

T'Challa called out, "Send Chijoke in, please." He leaned toward Bucky and whispered, "Ayo means well, but she is a bit… dismissive of people who are neither threat to nor guardian of the royal family."

"So long as she keeps you safe, I guess," Bucky murmured.

A tall, very thin man with worried eyes wheeled a white-linen covered cart into the room. Atop it sat two silver domes. Bucky didn't smell anything, but whatever was under them had to be an improvement on chicken water presented on a plastic tray.

"Thank you so much, Chijoke," T'Challa said as he stood and scooted his chair farther back to make room for the cart.

Bucky scrambled to his feet and followed suit. Chijoke nodded his thanks, but instead of pushing the cart into the space between the two chairs, he stepped in front of Bucky with a soft, "Excuse me, but if you would please stand by the King?" Bucky hurried over as Chijoke moved Bucky's chair to the side. He then pulled on a lever in the wall that Bucky hadn't realized was there. A section of what Bucky would have sworn was solid wall unfolded and formed a cantilevered table that locked in place with a quiet click. Bucky chased down a vague memory of beds unfolding from the wall in a similar way. He tried to remember what they were called. Something Irish. O'Malley beds? McMurray? Murphy! He smiled a little. "Kinda like what we used to call Murphy beds."

Chijoke's slightly anxious expression did not change, but T'Challa winked at him. "Wakanda is full of surprises, is it not?"

Bucky couldn't argue. The Murphy table was the least of the surprises he'd encountered in his short time here. Chijoke placed the chairs opposite each other at the table, then waved his arm for them to be seated.

After they were settled, Chijoke whipped a white linen cloth over the table. After setting out silver utensils and crystal stemware, he placed the first platter before the king. He lifted the lid to reveal a huge steak with a mix of vegetables Bucky didn't recognize. Chijoke produced a wine bottle and after T'Challa inspected the label and sniffed the cork, poured him a glass of dark red. T'Challa swirled the wine in the glass, sniffed it, then took a sip. When he nodded his approval, some of the chef's worry lines smoothed out, but they returned in force when he put Bucky's dinner before him. "Thank you," Bucky said, giving him the most disarming smile he knew how to make. Back in the day his smile could soothe the most irate father when he brought home a girl past her curfew, but this man seemed completely unaffected. Bucky sighed a little. Given everything he'd been through, guess he shouldn't be surprised he'd lost some of his touch.

Chijoke pulled the lid off and Bucky's eyes widened. Sitting on his plate was not a steak as he expected, but a huge stack of pancakes, with three thick slices of what looked, and more importantly smelled, exactly like the breakfast sausage his mother cooked when he was a kid. Chijoke filled his glass with cold milk from a stone jug. "Holy cow," he blurted. He looked up at Chijoke. "Thank you!"

The chef bowed slightly, his frown finally easing into a soft smile. "Captain Rogers told me that you used to enjoy pancakes with a tall glass of cold milk. I hope a wine glass of milk will work just as well."

"Oh my god, yes. He's right. I did. I mean, I do. I still love pancakes. And milk in any kind of glass is fine." He had fixed pancakes for himself a few times, when he was still in the States, but actual maple syrup was too expensive to buy in Romania and the pine syrup sold there just didn't taste the same, so he'd gone without. He took a steadying breath against the sudden upsurge of emotion the sight and aroma stirred, then tore his eyes away from the glorious golden stack to look up at the chef. "Thank you, Chijoke."

"You are very welcome. It was a joy to try out an American recipe for an American hero. _Bon appetit_." Before Bucky could protest his use of the word 'hero', Chijoke nodded to them both and then quickly rolled his cart out of the room.

"Pancakes?" T'Challa said.

"Huh?" Bucky's mind was still reeling from being called a hero. He wasn't one, not by a long shot.

"I said, 'pancakes?' They are a favorite dish?"

"Oh, um. Yeah." Bucky collected himself and then poured maple syrup over them. "Yeah, they're great." He put the little pitcher of syrup back on the table and picked up his fork, but he stopped before digging in. "You wanna try a bite before I start eating? Or is that not something you do here in Wakanda?"

T'Challa answered by reaching out with his own fork and cutting a small triangular bite. "If we were at a formal banquet, no, we would never do this. But since it is only you and me…" He shoved the bite into his mouth and chewed.

"Well?"

"It is… very sweet." He swallowed with some difficulty. "And… rather heavy compared to crepes."

"I know, it's great! Crepes are too… dainty or something. It's funny, my memories are all spotty and scattered, but I do know I had them in the war—one of the guys in our unit made 'em when he had the chance—but they always left me wishing I had good old American pancakes. And they're even better when you take a bite of sausage at the same time. The sweet syrup and the spicy sausage sort of play off one another… or if you have bacon, the salty is a good combination with the syrup, too." He shoveled in a huge bite of pancake and sausage. He nodded several times. "Just like my mom's. You gotta have just the right spices in the sausage, and not too much pepper but just enough to give it a little sort of zing." He took another bite, already wondering if he could ask for seconds.

"I had no idea you would hold such firm opinions about breakfast food."

Bucky blushed. "I, uh, guess I get a little carried away sometimes. I just really love pancakes. And sausage. They're just so damn good."

"I see." He didn't look convinced, however. "I believe I will leave you to them and enjoy my steak instead."

"You don't know what you're missing," Bucky mumbled as he chewed.

T'Challa smiled and tucked into his own meal, which Bucky had to admit looked very appetizing. Just not as appetizing as pancakes.

They ate in companionable silence until their plates were clean. Bucky did not, as much as he would have liked to, pick up his plate and lick up all the maple syrup like he usually did when he was alone in his apartment. He was dining with a freakin' king, after all. Nor did he ask for seconds, though he knew he could finish off another plate or two. Maybe even three. He wiped his mouth carefully with the napkin. "Thank you, for this."

"Thank Chijoke and Steven. I had little to do with it other than ordering it brought here."

"Well, regardless, thank you."

"You are quite welcome. Now, I believe you did not get your turn to ask me your questions."

Bucky's brain was so sated with sugar and butter and sausage that for a moment he simply stared blankly at T'Challa. "Um, okay," he said slowly. "Am I… um… can I… are there places you don't want me going?"

"You mean to say, are you a prisoner here?"

"Seems a fair question. No disrespect."

"None taken. It is a fair question, and the answer is no, you are not restricted from any public part of the city or country. You are, however, like any guest or citizen without proper clearance, restricted from classified technological, military, industrial or mining areas, and also from those places that are considered sacred to my people."

"So, like, say, around the base of that big panther statue?" Good to know he had an ironclad excuse to avoid—

"No, that is actually a public square; feel free to explore all you'd like."

 _Damn it._

Bucky gave him a weak smile. "Thanks."

"Have no fear. All restricted areas will be pointed out to you when you are recovered enough for a tour of the city. Certain areas within Tranquility Temple, certain parts of the royal halls. The scientific and technological research buildings, where classified work is ongoing. And of course the Great Mound."

"The Great Mound?"

"It is the sacred location of our source of vibranium."

That made sense, keeping outsiders away from that. "And this Tranquility Temple? I should probably just stay away from it altogether, right?"

"Not necessarily. Certain areas within the temple are reserved for the priests and for me, as king and protector, but you may visit the public area all you'd like."

"Are there a lot of temples or just that one?" _Please let there just be one I have to avoid and not something on every corner..._

"Many people have private altars in their homes, and outlying villages have small temples, but Tranquility Temple is the only public center in this city for our religion."

Bucky didn't let out the relieved sigh he wanted to. "And it's by the big statue?"

T'Challa looked faintly amused. "From this direction, just on the other side. Quite an easy walk."

 _Fat chance, King. I ain't goin' near that thing._

T'Challa's amusement turned into a full-blown smile. "I sense that the Panther worries you."

Good grief, did T'Challa read minds? "Well, yeah… I mean, no. I mean…" He stopped and took a deep breath. "Okay, it's just that I don't exactly have a pure soul. I figure it'd probably claw me to shreds or bite my head off as soon as I got within reach."

"You need not fear that, unless your actions while staying here prove problematic. Then you would have _me_ to fear. But our Panther god is more concerned with my behavior and thought than with yours. Rest easy. You will not come under threat for that."

"But…"

T'Challa waited.

"If somehow I get triggered… the Soldier comes out…"

"The Panther God can see past that to your soul. Indeed, if your soul itself were truly tarnished, then you would never have been allowed past our borders. I would have killed you in Siberia."

Bucky blinked several times. He wasn't reassured even a little bit by some statue telling T'Challa that his soul was clean, but he also wasn't about to argue religion with a king in the king's own country, especially not when said king so matter-of-factly spoke of killing him. He simply nodded. "That's, uh, good to know."

T'Challa smiled. He did that a lot, now that he wasn't trying to rip out Bucky's heart. Oh god… did the Panther God demand they do that? Offer human sacrifices like the Aztecs?

"You still look worried, my friend."

"It's nothing. I'm not. Worried, that is."

T'Challa's left eyebrow raised. "Do not lie to a king."

"Okay… don't take this wrong, because I'm just askin', not judging your religion or anything. But, uh, do you have to offer, um, sacrifices to the Panther God?"

T'Challa grew solemn. "Yes. On the full moon of each month, we gather up all the virgins from each village and choose the most beautiful one to cast into the sacred fire. A consort is also chosen to accompany her, usually an… outsider." He glanced at his wristwatch. "The full moon comes two nights hence, as a matter of fact."

Bucky felt the blood drain from his face.

T'Challa chuckled. "I jest! And in poor taste, I am sure, but the look on your face!"

Would it be improper to call a king an asshole? Probably. He settled for giving him a sour look. "Here I thought you'd be a wise and kind king."

"Oh, I will be both wise and kind, do not ever doubt that. But among friends… yes. I reserve the right to be an asshole. And do not think I don't realize that's what you wanted to call me."

Bucky laughed softly, but his eyes dropped to his plate. Among friends, T'Challa had said. Bucky still couldn't wrap his head around the fact that T'Challa, for whatever reason, now considered him a friend. How could he know enough about Bucky to call him friend, when Bucky himself still wasn't sure exactly who Bucky Barnes was? When he still apparently had a very dark and dangerous side of him—

No. Not a side of him. The Soldier was more like an intruder within him. A stranger who trapped Bucky in a corner of his own mind where he was helpless to do anything but watch as the Soldier used his body to do despicable things.

He was no hero. He was no friend. To anyone. He couldn't be, not with all that shit still in his head.

"Sergeant Barnes?" T'Challa asked softly. "What troubles you?"

Bucky sniffed. Swiped his nose with the back of his hand. "I just… don't think you should call me friend."

"Does that offend you?"

"No, no… it's not that. It's just…" He took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling for a moment before looking back at the king. "There's another person inside me who will never be a friend to anyone."

"The Winter Soldier."

Bucky nodded. "Until I can get him out of my head, I'm dangerous. Hell, even sitting here eating pancakes, you might say a word that trips a switch in my head and next thing I know, I wake up standing over your dead body. "

T'Challa's dark eyes glinted. "Or perhaps you do not wake up at all because I have defended myself to the death. Your death."

Bucky let out a bitter laugh. "That would actually solve a whole lot of problems."

The cold light faded back into concern. "You truly wish for death?"

Did he? He thought about it a lot. Thought about how easy it would be to escape. To just… stop. No more struggle. And most importantly, no more innocent victims. But then, as always, his conscience rose up to flay him. "Death is a sleep I haven't earned yet." He dredged up a sad smile. "And it'd make Steve even more sad than he already is. So I guess I don't, exactly."

"You and Steven, your friendship seems just as I have read. Very strong, like brothers."

"Well, it used to be that way. Now… I don't know. I think for him, it's the same. For me, it's complicated. I'm not the man he knew."

"And yet you still seem to be, if I may say so. When you are—and excuse me if this is offensive—in your right mind, you have the same strong sense of honor. The same desire to protect. Even the same sense of humor, perhaps."

Bucky shrugged. "Ain't anything particularly special about any of that. It ain't like Steve doesn't have a good friend, a good right-hand man, now. Sam Wilson is every inch the man I once was, without a murderer lurking in his head. I say this without any self-pity: Steve really doesn't need me. He shouldn't be goin' around riskin' his damn hide to save me. None of you should."

"I will choose to save whom I choose to save. That is my prerogative as king."

"You gonna issue a decree that I have to accept being saved?"

"Would it help?"

"I might be putting my head on the chopping block saying this, but no. These days I ain't exactly a guy who strictly adheres to the letter of any laws."

T'Challa chuckled. "I have learned that there are some laws that should be broken. But getting back to your friend Steven and whether Mr. Wilson is a worthy replacement: I am sure Mr. Wilson is a fine individual and a good friend, but I would point out that he did not grow up with Steven. Did not share childhood memories. We all change as we age, and yet that childhood bond remains. Mr. Wilson fills his own spot in Steven's heart, but you fill another, and I do not think he would wish your spot to be empty again now that it is full."

Bucky fiddled with his fork, drawing circles in the syrup left on his plate. "Maybe." He frowned. "If it were just Steve, that'd be enough for me to feel okay being around you and everyone, you know, like innocent civilians. He can stop me, after all. But…" He grimaced. "I'm sorry, I'm not making much sense."

"Take your time."

He chewed his lip for a moment. "I just… I'm worried. A lot. The words are still in my head. Like a time bomb or a land mine. I hear just one of them and I start to lose myself. Hear all nine and I'm highly explosive putty in someone's hands. I know your nation is secure, but I also know how insidious HYDRA was. Maybe still is. Kings and presidents have been fooled for a hundred years, maybe longer. If there is a sleeper agent here in Wakanda, and he or she knows how to trigger me… I don't know if I can live with that risk. I don't know if Wakanda can or should live with that risk."

"Do you feel safer with Steven around?"

"Yeah. I mean, he's the only one that's ever been able to break the programming, and even he has a really hard time doing it. He had to basically drop a helicopter on my head the last time. And I usually beat him half to death before he manages it."

"Are you worried about what might happen while he's gone?"

Bucky nodded. He ran his hand through his hair, then dropped it back down in his lap. "Dr. Ifede, she said that you have cryo tanks. I wonder if…" God, just thinking about it made the pancakes he'd eaten turn to lead. He swallowed hard and finished in a rush. "I wonder if it's not better that I go into cryo. Without Steve here, I just don't know if anyone else can pull me outta myself. I don't know who I'll hurt."

"Is this something that Dr. Ifede supports?"

"She wants me to try every avenue of treatment first. But that could take a long time, and Steve's going to be leaving soon. Maybe even today."

T'Challa nodded thoughtfully. "He will not leave today, nor even tomorrow. There is much still to plan for a mission such as that. But within a few days, certainly. Possibly as long as a week, though I know he chafes at the thought of his team being incarcerated that long, as do I. So give us… give our doctors… that amount of time. If by the end you still teeter on the edge between two people, then perhaps cryo is a short-term solution. But I must advise you to talk to Steven about this. I do not know him well, but I do know him well enough to realize that a precipitous move to cryo without his knowledge would be devastating to him. He has lost you twice; he will not be eager to lose you a third time."

"Okay."

T'Challa studied him silently for a few moments. "I do not know a lot about such things, but something, perhaps the Panther God, tells me that even if you do go into cryo, it will not be for a long time. Your own strength of mind will help you overcome what HYDRA has done to you. But if it gives you comfort to have that option, then it is important that we accommodate you. If Dr. Ifede has not already, I will have the engineers configure one of the chambers to meet your specific needs."

"Thank you."

"And know this: you will be safe while you sleep. I know that there are those outside our nation who would come for you, if they knew you were here." His eyes hardened. "Such an attempt would be… inadvisable."

Bucky had no doubts about that.

T'challa stood and extended his hand. "It has been both an honor and a pleasure, dining with you. I pray we can do it again soon."

Bucky shook his hand. "Same, your majesty."

"Someone will be along to clear away the remains of our dinner, and I imagine your friend Steven will be back shortly. Speak with him right away about cryo, Sergeant Barnes."

"I will."

T'Challa picked up his jacket, stuffed his feet in his shoes and, without bothering to tie them, left.

Bucky crawled back in his bed to wait for Steve to come back.

They had a lot to talk about.

 _tbc…_

-o0o-

a/n: Leopoldauer Alm is a real place, apparently, and I want to eat there. (Also, it's amazing how much information you can find about Viennese dining establishments on Trip Advisor.)

Chijoke – Ibo name meaning "God gives talent."


	16. Chapter 16

_Thanks to all the guest reviewers!_

-o0o-

When a hesitant knock sounded on the door—or at least as hesitant as a super soldier's super knuckles could make it—Bucky rolled over and stared up at the ceiling for a moment, waiting to see if Steve would simply come in. When he didn't, Bucky called out, "You do know that you don't hafta knock, right?"

Steve came in. "T'Challa might have still been here. Besides, it just feels polite to."

"You never bothered knocking when we lived together in Brooklyn."

Steve's smile didn't _quite_ reach his eyes, probably because his patented Tragic Sadness expression swooped in to hog the upper half of his face.

"Look, pal. You're gonna have to quit looking like you're about to cry every time I mention something from Brooklyn. I actually remember a lot of it and it was a happy time in our lives. And I can't stress this enough: _it doesn't make me sad to think about it._ Especially around you. Okay?"

The smile reached his eyes. "Sorry. Can't help it. My emotions are kind of a jumble when it comes to you."

"Aw. I'm touched. Or more likely _you're_ touched. You gotta snap out of this, buddy."

"Look who's talkin'."

Bucky shot him a sour look. "Yeah, well… fine. So I cried a little." He sat up and crossed his legs so he could rest his elbow on his knee and his chin on his fist. "How'd it go with the warrior lady?"

"Aneka."

"Yeah, her."

Steve pulled his chair away from the now-cleared table, then did a double take. "Was that…?"

"Nope. The chef pulled a lever and hey presto, a Murphy table fell out of the wall." Made him wonder what else was hiding in the walls, but he deliberately ignored that fresh slice of paranoia.

"The chef? You finally got to eat something besides chicken broth?"

"Yep. Pancakes. Thank you for cluing in Chijoke, by the way."

"Were they good?"

"Better than yours by a long shot. Maybe even better than my own. Maybe."

"Better than mine is a pretty low bar, but if they were as good as yours, then Chijoke has some skills."

"You didn't answer my question. How'd it go with Aneka?"

Steve sighed. "It's going to be a tricky extraction, but I think we're close to hammering out a plan."

"You didn't finalize anything?"

"No. She got called away." The corner of his mouth twitched in a rueful grin. "Once again, I'm reminded we're not exactly priority."

"Good. It'll keep you humble."

He rubbed his face and neck. "Add it to the list. Any more humble and I'll be back to my skinny, asthmatic punk self."

"God forbid. I don't want to have to nurse you through any more late night asthma attacks. I swear those took twenty years off my life."

"So you'll only live to be, what, 150? 160?"

Bucky casually rubbed his nose with his middle finger, then ducked when Steve feinted a left jab toward his jaw. The quick move hurt his ribs, but it still felt good to pick up the threads of how things used to be between them, solid threads that he clearly remembered. "Did you at least figure out when you'll leave?"

"No. There'll be a memorial service for T'Chaka the day after tomorrow, and then she has further duties to T'Challa for a few more days after that. That puts it at four days at the earliest, but there's a hurricane heading straight for the Raft's location, so even longer if have to wait for it to clear the area."

"Will it cause problems for the Raft?"

"Shouldn't. The Raft can sink well below the ocean's surface. They might feel a little rocking, maybe get a little seasick, but that's it. But even if we could fly through a hurricane to get there, they couldn't raise it for us to land."

Bucky nodded. He was sorry for the team, having to wait and maybe getting raging cases of seasickness...

 _... The sea lifted the troop carrier up a towering swell and dropped it like a rock down into the trough..._ _rain pelted the back of his head and neck as he leaned as far out over the rail as he could and retched his guts out..._

"Bucky, you feeling okay?" Steve asked. "You look a little green."

He blinked. "Um, yeah... yeah. Just, uh..." He rubbed his face and swallowed a few times. "Wow. For a minute there I was back in the war, shipping out to England. We hit a storm on the way. Wasn't pretty."

"You gonna be sick?" Steve looked ready to flee and Bucky didn't blame him.

"Nah. I'm okay. Just was a pretty strong memory, I guess. I hope none of the team gets seasick."

"Despite what I said, I doubt they will. You couldn't do what we do if you're prone to motion sickness."

"Yeah, guess not." He was slightly reassured. He still didn't like the delay, but he had to admit it at least bought him and his doctors more time. He chewed on his thumbnail, trying to find a way to broach the whole cryo subject.

"So what will you do?" Steve asked before Bucky could think of anything. "Tonight, I mean. You planning to sleep here or move over to the suite they have for you?"

"No reason I can't move, I guess."

"I'll help carry your things."

"Don't strain yourself. I mean, my toothbrush is kinda heavy."

"You do have a lot of teeth. Probably a big brush." Steve started stretching. "Better warm up my muscles."

Bucky chuckled. "Well, if I'm as wobbly as I was earlier this afternoon, you might end up carrying _me_."

"You still shaky?"

"Only one way to find out." He uncurled his legs and stood up. The room stayed nice and still. He walked around the room several times, even did some squats. Things twinged and ached, but overall, he felt strong. Much stronger than earlier. Maybe all he'd really needed was a square meal. "I think the pancakes helped."

"They probably did if you're anything like me. If I don't eat, I get lightheaded, and you haven't eaten much since I yanked you from your apartment."

"Yeah. Increased metabolism sucks, but it does let me eat all the chocolate bars I want without ruining my girlish figure."

Steve snorted. "Don't think I didn't see that stash of them on top of your refrigerator. Anyway. Do we have to call for someone to take us over there or do you know where this place is and have a key already?"

"Yes, because no." He punched the call button on the bed. When a nurse's voice asked what she could do for him, he said, "Dr. Ifede said there was a suite of rooms somewhere I could move to when I was ready?"

The voice assured him there was and that someone would be along to escort him.

"Thank you," Bucky said, then turned to Steve. "Can't complain about the service in this place."

"They're doing a good job spoiling you."

"Feels strange. Not really used to the five-star treatment."

"Get used to it. You deserve it."

He let that go without comment. "Dr. Ifede said you could stay with me, if you wanted to. I mean, unless you're happy wherever they've got you."

"You want me to?"

"Yeah, it'd be… a little like old times."

"Sure. Love to." Steve's eyes got a little moist.

Bucky glared. "Stop."

Steve made a heroic effort to tamp down his emotions and mostly succeeded. "So… what comes next?"

"You mean as far as treatment?" When Steve nodded, Bucky took a deep breath. This was the opening he was waiting for. Might as well dive right in. "I see some kinda therapist or three, probably get some scans of my brain. Hopefully they find where the triggers are lurking and get rid of them. If not, then…"

Steve's voice turned hard. "Then what?"

Bucky couldn't bear the look in Steve's eyes, so he examined his thumbnail. "They have cryo chambers," he mumbled.

"They have what?"

Bucky finally dared look up. Steve's face was white, but there were two spots of bright red on his cheeks and his eyes blazed. Bucky sighed. "Damn it, Steve, you know I can't keep going with all this in my head. I'm too dangerous to be free. Hell, I'm the one that should be locked up in the Raft, but I'm not even stable enough to stand trial—"

"You're not going to stand trial."

He gave Steve an incredulous look. "The hell I'm not. I have to."

Steve shook his head. "No. There's no way on this planet that they can charge you for anything you did while under mind control. There's precedent with Clint… he was under Loki's control and committed a lot of crimes, but they didn't arrest him. No one even considered it."

Bucky took a deep breath. Now wasn't the time. "Okay, whatever. We can talk about that later. Thing is, if the scientists and doctors here can't guarantee I'm free from it all, then cryo is the only logical option until they figure out how to cure me." He tried to grin. "Beats killin' me like a rabid dog."

Steve's scowl didn't ease. "Buck, no one's going to kill you."

"If the Soldier takes over and attacks T'Challa, damn straight they'll kill me and rightfully so. You know, I told T'Challa that I didn't kill his father, and it's true that I may not have set off that bomb, but the very fact that I exist, that I was out there in the wind and Zemo used that to his advantage makes me at least partly culpable for T'Chaka's death, even if I didn't actually do it. T'Challa's being merciful to the extreme, but the fact is Wakanda doesn't owe me anything, not even life."

Steve didn't say anything. A muscle in his jaw started to knot up.

"Okay, forget all the legal stuff. I just don't want to hurt anyone else, okay? So this is my choice, all right?"

Steve's frown didn't ease up in the slightest.

This was going about as well as Bucky expected. He pressed on. "Dr. Ifede said that I have to try everything they got first, so it's just a last resort."

Steve remained silent. He crossed his arms.

"Damn it, Steve. Would it kill you to be a little less, I dunno, Bulwark of American Truth and Justice?"

Steve's arm crossing intensified.

"Good grief," Bucky muttered. He licked his lips. "Okay, this is another part you might have trouble accepting. I might go into cryo before they exhaust all options, 'cuz once you leave, I'm not sure there's anyone strong enough to… stop the Soldier."

More silence. From the way the muscle now bulged at the corner of Steve's jaw, Bucky had real concerns for the integrity of Steve's molars.

Bucky pressed on. "T'Challa thinks he could stop the Soldier, but come on, he's the king. He'll be too busy to babysit me or come running if I lose it. Same with the Dora Milaje. I could kill a nurse or a doctor or a bunch of nurses and docs before they could get to the building. I can't put any of them at risk like that, not for just tryin' to help me. I come back to myself and find out I did that, T'Challa wouldn't have to kill me. I'd do it myself."

"Buck."

"I would. Look, I gotta somehow live with the fact that I've committed I don't know how many murders of innocent people in my past. I refuse to add to that total. I got a lot of atoning to do, a lot of wrongs that I can't possibly set right, but I hafta do _something_ , even if it's sit in prison for the rest of my days. I just know that I can't do _any_ of it unless and until I can trust my own mind. I gotta know that even in prison, no one from my past can stroll up to me and say a bunch of words and then I go berserk and kill more people and maybe they spring me and make me do—" He stopped and cleared his throat. "Yeah. If they can't cure me and they won't kill me, then they gotta freeze me until they find a cure. It'll be the only way I can ever stop running. Stop ruining more lives. My choice."

Steve sagged as if someone had let all the air out of him. "Damn it, Buck," he said softly. Tears welled in his eyes and he swiped at his nose. "I don't… I just wish…"

"I know, pal," Bucky said equally softly. He threw his arm around Steve's neck and gave him a rough shake as he pulled Steve's head onto his shoulder. "I know. Just remember. My choice. I'm okay with it."

Steve threw his arms around Bucky and squeezed him tight enough to make his ribs creak, but Bucky didn't mind.

After a minute or so, Steve straightened up. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"Just returning the favor. Not fair for me to slobber all over your shirt if I don't let you do it all over mine, too."

"Yeah, guess so." He took a deep breath, raising his shoulders for a moment, then letting them drop. It reminded Bucky so much of Steve as a little kid he had to smile. "What?" Steve asked.

"Just that thing you do with your shoulders. I remember you doing it when you were six and I challenged you to jump from the fire escape to the big oak tree in front of our building."

"Oh yeah. Didn't I miss?"

"Yep. Fell from branch to branch like a damn pachinko ball until you hit the sidewalk and broke your arm."

"And your mother grounded us both, even though she wasn't even my mom. We missed seeing _The Navigator_."

Bucky laughed softly. "You always liked Buster Keaton."

"He made good films."

A knock interrupted their trip down memory lane, and at Bucky's call, a man pulling a wheelchair pushed the door open and backed into the room.

Bucky groaned. "What? No. No wheelchair. I don't need it, really. I can walk just fine. I _need_ to walk."

The orderly, who was taller even than Steve and just as broad shouldered, bowed. "My apologies." If Bucky had heard deeper voices, he couldn't remember where. "It is hospital policy, plus it is a very long walk for someone who is only just starting to heal from such severe injuries."

"But I heal really fast, so I don't need—"

"Buck, I'd sit before he _makes_ you sit," Steve whispered in his ear.

"Fine. At least you won't have to carry me," he muttered. He sat down in the wheelchair, feeling a little like a child in the hands of a giant. He offered a weak smile over his shoulder at the man towering behind him. "Be gentle."

The man returned Bucky's smile with a downright angelic one of his own. "Always, sir."

Bucky looked forward, trying not to think about the fact that the man's biceps were bigger around than his entire head and trying not to think about how despite that, Bucky could probably _still_ take him out one-handed. His stomach clenched at the thought.

 _No more hurting anyone. No more. God, if you're out there listening, no more. Help 'em find a way to get the beast outta my head before Steve leaves…_

 _tbc..._


	17. Chapter 17

Without any further conversation, the orderly wheeled Bucky into the corridor and Bucky got his first glimpse of the hospital beyond the four walls of his room. He was a little disappointed to see that it wasn't much different from hospitals anywhere. Wide hallway with a white linoleum floor. Doorways of patient rooms along one side; bathrooms, doctor/family consultation room, vending machines and a nurses' station along the other. Handrail at waist height along both walls, currently gripped at one point by an elderly man shuffling along in his slippers. A nurse walked alongside him with her hand loosely holding some sort of strap-like belt wrapped around his waist, to keep him from falling, Bucky guessed. Watching the man inch along, Bucky was suddenly glad for the wheelchair.

Halfway down the hall, they came up to a counter, behind which were several nurses. One of them glanced up and smiled. "Good luck, Bako! We will miss you."

"Thanks," Bucky said, blushing a little. As soon as the man rolled him out of earshot, he whispered, "What did she call me?"

A chuckle rumbled the wheelchair. "We have been calling you Bako, amongst ourselves. It sounds very close to your name, Bu-cky—am I saying it right?"

"Yeah. Bucky."

"Yes, it sounds very much like 'Bako', which means _'guest'_."

"Seriously?"

"Yes, sir."

"What are the odds."

Another rumbling laugh. "Indeed, sir."

He jerked his thumb toward Steve. "So you got a secret pet name for that guy?"

"We call him Ronke."

"What does that mean?"

"' _I have someone to pamper.'_ "

"Aw, hear that, Steve _Ronke_ , I mean Rogers?"

"I hear."

"You _are_ letting 'em give you the grand treatment, right?"

"Not really, no."

Bucky grimaced. Of course he wouldn't accept pampering. Captain "I Can Get By On My Own" America can't be selfish, after all, not even when he's no longer Captain America.

Silence fell again as they went on. They turned a corner and two more nurses beamed at him as one of them patted his shoulder and wished him well. He smiled a little, blushed a lot, but thanked them both for helping him, even though for the life of him he couldn't remember having ever seen either. For all that he didn't stay here very long and didn't actually interact with them much, the nurses sure seemed to have taken a liking to him.

It was all a little confusing.

They took an elevator to ground level. The doors opened on a big atrium-style lobby, all metal and glass and big pots of palm trees with a fountain in the center. Night had nearly fallen outside, but he could still see a high pink sky beyond the glass. He craned his neck every which way to take it all in, but his orderly didn't stop to let him gawk. He just kept walking and pushed Bucky down a hall past a cafeteria, which smelled heavenly even though he was still pretty full of pancakes. They passed some kind of fancy barber shop, a gift shop, and finally turned around another corner where the elaborate public décor gave way to more utilitarian white walls interrupted by ranks of unmarked doors. Bucky shifted a little, his hand tightening on the wheelchair armrest.

"You doing okay, Buck?" Steve murmured.

"Yeah." He wasn't, exactly, but he either trusted the Wakandans or he didn't, and so far, there was no reason to think there was anything behind those closed doors other than storage or offices or labs where they looked at a patient's blood to see if he had malaria. Hospital stuff. Not HYDRA stuff. He slowly took several deep breaths.

Around another two or three corners, or maybe four—he'd lost track while he was trying to keep his breathing under control—and they were in a smaller but no less grand lobby area. Bucky immediately relaxed. This time, instead of going down another hallway, the orderly pushed a button on the wall that opened a door to the outside. He wheeled Bucky through and Bucky took a deep breath of warm, humid Wakandan air.

"It is nice to breathe fresh air, is it not?" the orderly asked.

Bucky twisted around so he could look up at the man. "Yeah, it's nice, um—I didn't catch your name?"

"Mabhuti."

"Does Mabhuti mean something like Bako does?"

The man smiled, showing a large array of very white teeth. "It means _'little brother_.'"

"You gotta be joking, right?"

"I was a very small baby with three older brothers. My parents did not expect me to grow so large."

"Ever think about changing it?"

"It is the name my parents gave me. I do not wish to dishonor their choice."

Bucky blinked. Were there no actual assholes in Wakanda? Maybe they deported anyone who wasn't 100% kind and pure. He kept that to himself, though. No profit in reminding anyone here that he wasn't exactly the 100% kind and pure sort; he needed to stay here, after all. "Yeah, guess you wouldn't want to do that."

"Besides, I enjoy seeing people's reactions."

"I bet." Bucky grew quiet again as he took in the view. Mabhuti had taken a walkway that crossed a broad expanse of open lawn, gardens and trees. To the east, the sky was turning a dark blue, but there was still enough sunlight in the west to cast everything in a warm glow. Ahead of them rose a multi-story tower that Bucky assumed was their destination. It was all gleaming glass reflecting the sunset, very modern just like the hospital lobby.

The landscape itself was filled with plants similar to what he'd seen growing along the runway, but placed with aesthetics in mind. Clusters of palms towered over red-flowering bushes, and curving paths wound through swaths of blue flowers and ferns and plants with bright, multicolored leaves—it was just about the prettiest place Bucky had ever seen. But even more impressive were giant trees whose limbs sprawled so wide from the base that they'd put down little mini trunks of their own at the ends. Monkeys scampered and screeched in the treetops, probably calling their goodnights to one another. It was very exotic and very reassuringly _not_ Siberia. It was like they weren't even on the same planet as that frozen hell.

As they neared one of the big trees, a monkey chattered down at them, then suddenly leapt from the branch right into Bucky's lap. Bucky couldn't hold back a startled yelp as the monkey clambered over him and up Mabhuti's right arm to sit on his shoulder. Their little parade came to a stop as Mabhuti tried to shoo it away. But instead of running back to the tree, it jumped back in Bucky's lap, where it sat its little rump down on Bucky's right thigh and let out another chattering screech as it pointed toward the tower.

Bucky grinned. "I think it wants a ride before bedtime."

"He does this any time someone goes by in a wheelchair, no matter the time of day. He has been known to accost people even at midnight. Gently, mind you. He was hand-reared after losing his mother, so he is quite tame," Mabhuti said as he resumed pushing Bucky's chair. The little monkey bounced a few times in excitement, then relaxed his back against Bucky's chest. Bucky grinned up at Steve. "Aw. Just like Becca used to do to you when I'd pull you guys in my wagon," he said.

Steve smiled fondly. "I remember."

Bucky was careful not to fidget so the monkey wouldn't get startled and run off. "Hey, buddy," he said softly. He reached out a tentative finger and was delighted when the monkey grabbed it and pulled Bucky's entire hand against his soft little belly. Bucky held him protectively in place until they reached the tower's front doors. As if he knew he'd never be allowed in the building, his new little friend pushed Bucky's hand aside and jumped down to run back to the trees. Bucky sighed as he watched him scamper away.

Mabhuti's voice had a smile in it. "Do not worry. He will come back, as do all good things."

Bucky kept his eyes on the swiftly disappearing monkey. "I don't know about you, pal, but that hasn't exactly been my life experience."

A hand squeezed his right shoulder. "It's been mine," Steve said.

Bucky stiffened a little. Rogers and his stupid damn optimism again. There was nothing good in getting a friend back who was a broken, confused shadow of the man he'd been in 1944. A broken, confused _murderous_ shadow, no less. But he didn't want to rain on Steve's joy, so he finally just shrugged.

Steve's hand fell away and Bucky knew… he _knew…_ that if he looked up, he'd see sorrow and frustration on Steve's face.

So he didn't look up.

-o0o-

"Here we are," Mabhuti said. "Home, sweet home."

The apartment was… luxurious. There was no other word for it. Bucky didn't know what he expected, exactly, when Mabhuti opened the door and wheeled him in, but it wasn't marble floors and a soft plush sofa and high ceilings lined with exotic wood. It wasn't a kitchen with gleaming stainless steel appliances and stone countertops. It wasn't wall-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking a mountain whose peak still shone in the last light of the setting sun.

Bucky licked his lips. "Um, wow. You sure you got the right place? You didn't take a wrong turn and end up at the royal residence?"

Mabhuti laughed. "I took no wrong turns. This is quite plain, actually."

"Says you," Bucky muttered. He reached down and locked the wheelchair wheels and very carefully stood up. Trying to ignore all the comfort and splendor that was far more than he had any right to indulge in—leave the pampering to Captain _Ronke_ —he walked to the window and stared out. The apartment was on the opposite side of the building from the city, so no giant panthers in sight. No buildings either, for that matter. Just shadowy jungle, the towering mountain and the deepening purple sky above.

"Is it to your liking, the view?" Mabhuti asked.

Bucky nodded. "Yeah. Very much so."

Steve came to stand beside him. "No panther statue," he murmured.

Bucky nodded, but said nothing. He watched until the mountain's glow faded to shadow and true night fell. Then he turned back around and saw Mabhuti had turned on the lights on low and was still waiting patiently. "Oh god, sorry! I lost track of time… uh… the view was…"

Mabhuti smiled. "It is all right. Our sunsets and our mountain have that effect on all of us. I enjoyed watching it as well. But now may I show you the rest of your home?"

"Might as well. Save me bumbling around looking for light switches."

Mabhuti pointed. "They are on the wall beside every door." He then led Bucky down a short hallway and into a bedroom furnished more simply than the living area, but it was still worlds more sumptuous than any place Bucky had ever lived, before or after his capture. There was a large bed centered against one wall, a comfortable chair in the corner, and a television hanging on the wall opposite the bed. Colors and patterns that looked very similar to Dr. Ifede's scarves covered both bed and chair.

Mabhuti opened a door to reveal a walk-in closet. Bucky's black pants, now clean and pressed, hung above his now-polished boots. There were also several new pairs of pants and shirts, some white like the clothing he had on, but others in darker shades of blue and black. Mabhuti opened a drawer in a small chest to reveal underwear and socks and pajamas. "You came here with nothing but the very damaged clothing on your back, so we took it upon ourselves to provide you with more, using what we had of yours as a guide to size and style. If things do not fit or are uncomfortable in any way, please let me know. My number is listed beside the telephone in the kitchen."

"I'm sure it'll all be fine. Thank you."

Mabhuti nodded, then led Bucky back into the bedroom. He opened a second door, which revealed a bathroom and shower. "There are toiletries in the cabinet below the sink, and towels as well." He turned to Steve. "You have a similar bedroom at the end of the hall."

"Sounds great," Steve said.

"The kitchen is stocked with all the equipment you might need, plus a wide variety of food. If you require anything else, please ask."

Bucky nodded. He was feeling a little overwhelmed by everything. He didn't know what he had expected—a little apartment with the bare basics, maybe. Certainly not all this… grandeur. He'd been living on the streets and in dingy single rooms for the last two years. Before that, it was cryo between missions. Before _that_ , it was tiny Brooklyn walk-ups. He wasn't worth silk and marble and huge windows with sweeping views. The hospital room had been utilitarian enough, but this place… he felt like a sham, a usurper taking advantage of a people whose generosity outweighed their common sense.

He took a careful breath. Ran his hand over his hair and gathered it in a bunch at the nape of his neck. The pterodactyls started shifting around. He fought the urge to shoo Mabhuti and Steve out of his bedroom and curl up with the colorful blanket over his head. He couldn't be rude, though, so he stayed silent, only half listening as he trailed along behind Mabhuti to Steve's room and then to the living area where Mabhuti reclaimed the wheelchair and finally let himself out with one last parting instruction that Dr. Ifede would come in the morning to check on him and set up his rehabilitation sessions.

Oh god. Rehabilitation sessions.

The pterodactyls soared.

Bucky shut the door and leaned his forehead against it for a moment, then turned to look vacantly over the big room. He needed to do… something. His head ached. Was filling up with fog and smoke and haze.

"Tired?" Steve asked.

Bucky's answer was slow. "Umm… I…."

He felt a hand on his elbow. "Take a deep breath, Buck."

He did.

"Let it out, slow."

He did that, too.

"Again. In and out, slow. Tell me what you see."

Bucky blinked a few times and his mind cleared a little. "Um… a lot more luxury than I deserve?"

Steve let go of his elbow. He didn't say anything, but neither did he move away. He just hovered within arm's reach, worry putting a crease between his eyebrows.

"I'm okay, really."

The crease didn't uncrease. Figured.

"I, uh, think I'll just go to bed. Been a long day."

"Sounds like a good idea."

He started toward the bedroom, then stopped and looked around. "All this…" He waved vaguely around. "Sure is a far cry from Brooklyn."

Steve actually chuckled. "Yeah. Not exactly a bathtub in the kitchen and you sleeping on the couch and me in the one broken-down bed we owned."

"Those were good years, though," Bucky murmured. Then he frowned. "Weren't they?"

"Yeah, Bucky. The best."

Bucky nodded. He ran his hand over his hair again, then forced himself to drop it back to his side. He chewed his lip. "I wish…"

When he didn't finish, Steve just nodded. He squeezed Bucky's shoulder. "It's gonna be okay, Buck."

"This is all so… fancy."

"It is that."

"I guess you got used to this kind of stuff, though. Living with the Avengers and all."

Steve shrugged. "Yeah, I suppose. My place there was pretty plain, though, compared to all this. No marble or fancy wood ceilings. Furniture was real nice, though. Lot more comfortable than Brooklyn ever was. I think my bed alone is as big as our entire apartment."

Bucky took one more deep breath. The pterodactyls seemed to have gone back to sleep. "I still don't think I'm worth all this, Steve." He saw the protest building on Steve's face and held up his hand. "But I'm going to… I'm gonna try to become a man who is."

Steve's throat worked, but he nodded. "I have absolutely no doubt you'll do it."

Bucky shrugged. "Time will tell, I guess." He looked Steve up and down, belatedly realizing how tired he looked. "You okay?"

Steve's turn to shrug. "I'm here. Some days that's the best you can hope for."

"… _I'm here, anyway," Steve said as the morning sun hit the window. He'd had three asthma attacks in the night and looked like shit, but yeah. Bucky sure was glad to see the little runt was still in the land of the living._

" _Some days that's the best you can hope for," Bucky said, his voice rough with exhaustion._

Bucky narrowed his eyes at his now far from runty friend. "You don't have asthma still, do you?"

Steve grinned. "You remember that night?"

"Yeah. And ain't that a kick in the pants? Can't remember my own middle name half the time, but I remember saving your skinny hide three times in one night."

"How about I make it up to you by promising to let you sleep tonight?"

"You got nothin' to make up for."

"Says you," Steve said. They stopped in front of Bucky's bedroom door, and Steve gave his shoulder a light punch. "G'night, jerk. You need me, yell."

"I'll be fine. Now scram and try to sleep off all that ugly."

Steve grinned and sauntered down the hallway to his own room. Bucky watched his door close, then went to the bathroom and found the toothpaste and a toothbrush below the sink as promised. He took care of his teeth and his bladder, then returned to the bedroom. He pulled back the covers and sat down. Bounced a little. Gently hugged one of the many pillows. It smelled like lavender and something else a little spicy and exotic. He swiveled and slid his legs under the smooth sheets and turned out the bedside lamp. A soft glow remained from a nightlight in the corner. He slowly relaxed on the soft mattress, staring at the ceiling.

Yeah. Definitely a far cry from Brooklyn.

 _tbc…_

Notes: _Thanks as always to guest reviewers. Please remember I can't reply to you directly if you don't have an actual account or don't have your messaging enabled._

 _Bluetigress, to answer your question about the last chapter, pachinko is a Japanese arcade/gambling game where a steel ball drops down a vertical board, bouncing from pin to pin until it lands in one of several cups or slots on the way down and thereby grants the player a prize or money (or nothing at all if it misses all the cups). There were children's toy versions of it in the 1920s. As for the other story ideas you've mentioned, right now I'm concentrating hard on this one (and whatever immediate follow-up story it might need), plus I have 2-3 others I want to write that fall between CATWS and CACW before I tackle anything else._

 _Lastly, I can't remember in which review reply I used "M'Boto" instead of "Mabhuti", but my apologies. M'Boto was a placeholder in the draft for this chapter and my hand slipped. M'Boto isn't really a name in any language I can find… just one of those created by someone in Hollywood once because it "sounded African". Anyway, M'Boto is now Mabhuti. Apologies for any confusion._

 _When choosing names for my Wakandan OCs, I try to use Xhosa or Nigerian names._

 _Bako – Nigerian/Hausa tribal name  
_

 _Ronke – Nigerian/Yoruban name_

 _Mabhuti – Xhosa **  
**_


	18. Chapter 18

_**Thank you as always for the lovely reviews. I wish I could write these faster for you!**_

Sometime in the early hours, Bucky jerked awake. He was on his stomach, sideways across the bed. When he lifted his head, the sheet stuck to his chin where he'd drooled.

Lovely.

He pulled the sheet off, scrubbed his chin with the back of his hand and winced. Not that he was too concerned with niceties like looking clean and neat, but even he had to admit he needed to shave. He very nearly had a full beard now. He rolled onto his back, unsure why he was awake. He was sure it wasn't because he was worried about personal grooming. He didn't recall any dreams, good or bad. His bladder wasn't full. Nothing really hurt. Much. Ribs and chest still ached but it wasn't anything that should have jerked him out of a nice sleep.

Had there been a sound?

He sat up. Cocked his ear toward the door. Waited.

A muffled voice, indistinct. Definitely Steve's.

He stood up, rubbing one eye as he staggered to the door. He opened it and waited a moment, just to be sure he wasn't imagining it.

Another mumble. Closer to a moan.

Well, shit. He was the one supposed to have nightmares, not Steve.

Bucky padded down the hall and pressed his hand against Steve's door. It wasn't latched and swung open at his light touch. Bucky cautiously stuck his head in. "Steve?" he whispered. "You okay?"

Nothing. Just deep, even breathing.

Bucky pulled the door closed again and started back to his room.

"Bucky! No!"

Bucky hurried back. Pushed the door open. He expected to see Steve thrashing around, but there was just enough light coming from the bathroom nightlight that he could tell Steve was still. Bucky tiptoed to the bed. "Steve," he whispered.

Steve turned his head away. Mumbled something and then again cried, "No!"

"Steve, wake up," Bucky urged. He wondered if Steve would toss him across the room if he touched him. Decided to take the chance and gently shook his shoulder. It was like trying to shake Borovitskaya Tower.

" _I thought you were smaller…"_

He held back a wry chuckle. He never had gotten used to how big Steve was, and seventy years hadn't changed that. "Steve!"

Steve coughed, mumbled something that sounded like, "Murphmingle." He blinked a few times. "Unnh?"

Bucky straightened up and took a cautious step back. "It's just me."

Steve squinted up at him. "Huh? What? You okay?"

"I'm fine. You were, uh, calling for me. In your sleep, I guess."

More blinks and suddenly the blank expression was replaced with a grimace. "Damn it," Steve sighed. He shoved the blanket off his chest and sat up, scooting so he could lean against the headboard. "It's just a dream I have every so often. Watching you fall from the train."

Well, crap. How often did Steve suffer from that lovely replay? "Man, Steve, I'm so sorry."

"Nah, I'm the one who's sorry—didn't mean to wake you up." He rubbed his face vigorously with both hands, then looked around. "What time is it?"

"I think about 2:30."

"Go back to bed. I'm fine."

Bucky shrugged. He didn't really want to go back to bed, now that he was up and now that he knew Steve suffered nightmares. A memory teased at his brain, just out of reach. Something he should be doing. Then he remembered. A stove. A saucepan. Milk. "Stay put. I'll be right back," he said and hurried into the kitchen.

He had to open a few cabinets before tracking down a glass, but he filled it with milk he found in the refrigerator, then popped it in the microwave. He stared at the control panel for a moment, reading the labels, which were thankfully in English and not Wakandan. He was pretty sure he knew a lot of languages, but he was equally sure Wakandan wasn't one of them. Idly wondering why it wasn't in Wakandan, he punched in 10 seconds and hit the start button. Maybe they didn't actually make microwaves here, just imported them from China like everyone else did. The timer dinged softly. He opened the door and stuck his finger in the milk. Not yet. Another ten seconds. Or maybe Wakandans spoke English because it was the main language of commerce and even countries as reclusive as Wakanda traded with other nations. A soft ding interrupted his musings. Perfect. He brought it to Steve. "Here."

"I figured that's what you were doing." Steve turned on the bedside light and smiled as he took the glass. "You used to do that every time I had a bad dream. You learned it from my ma."

"Helluva lot faster way to do it these days."

"Ma would have killed for a microwave oven. Would have made boiling everything a lot quicker." He took a sip. "Thanks. Been a long time since anyone's brought me warm milk."

Bucky felt like there was something else he should be doing. Something more than just the milk, but he couldn't track down the memory. "Did I used to do anything else?"

Steve grinned. "Oh yeah. You'd sing me a lullaby."

"No."

"Yep. The raunchiest song you could come up with, and you could come up with some doozies. It'd make me laugh and forget the nightmare so I'd fall asleep."

Bucky stared, completely flustered. "I don't think I know any raunchy songs." He wasn't sure he knew _any_ songs besides _Star-Spangled Man With A Plan,_ and he didn't think Steve would appreciate hearing that one again. Unless he could raunch it up, maybe change goose-stepping goons to duck-fu—

"Relax. I really, really don't want you to sing to me."

He gladly abandoned that particular train of thought. "Good. So you okay, now?"

Steve pulled his knees up. "Yeah, but I won't be able to get back to sleep for a while, so if you want to, you can sit for a minute. It's a new thing for me, waking up from a nightmare about you dying to you actually standing there not dead."

Bucky sat down and without even thinking pulled his feet up on the bed, wrapped his arm around his knees, and rested his chin on the right one.

Steve laughed under his breath.

"What?"

"That's exactly how you sat when we were kids. Good to know some things don't change."

"Ever wish nothing had? That we were still those two kids back in Brooklyn, tryin' to get by?"

Steve looked toward the dim outline of the window. "Yeah. All the time. Looking back now, I'd give up the serum in a heartbeat if it gave us our lives back the way we were, before the war."

"Nah, you wouldn't. Neither would I."

Steve was quiet for a long time, then he sighed. "You're right. I wouldn't. Being able to get out there, do the right thing, be healthy enough to fight… those were everything to me and still are. But…to think about the cost you paid so I could? And then realize that that history just keeps repeating itself…"

"History repeating itself is exactly why you wouldn't go back and do it differently." Bucky gave Steve's foot a light kick. "And I don't want it back, despite everything. You're only remembering the good stuff, which, yeah, the good stuff was all really great. But believe it or not, I can actually remember the bad stuff, and it was _not_ so great. I wouldn't want you sick all the time again, hardly able to breathe most the time. Me having to worry about pneumonia in the winter, polio in the summer, where to find work to help both our families pay all the bills."

Steve returned the kick. "I had you, though. It's stupid, but I really used to think you were some kind of good luck charm. Like nothing really bad could ever happen as long as you were around."

Bucky snorted.

"Then you died and…" He shrugged. He drained the milk and put the empty glass on the nightstand. "My luck kinda went sour." He attempted a smile but it was the most miserable attempt at hiding sadness that Bucky had ever seen.

Bucky didn't know how to respond. It was ludicrous, him being anyone's lucky charm, but maybe if he hadn't fallen from the train, he might have helped Steve fight off Red Skull, kept him from having to ditch the plane into the ice. It was an unanswerable question, though. Bucky might just as easily have died a hundred other ways. Steve still might've faced Red Skull and an icy tomb alone.

Steve shook his head. "Listen to me. I didn't mean to get all maudlin. The past is what it is, and we're both here now, together again. You're safe. That's all that matters."

Bucky hardly thought his safety was all that mattered, but he let it pass. "So okay, no more maudlin stuff. Tell me this: what happened while you were frozen that you wished you'd seen?"

"Easy. Moon landing. Probably would've been invited to see the launch right there at the space center. And the whole space shuttle program. Man. I hate that I missed all of that."

"Yeah, I read up on some of it. Would've been great to have been alive, or um, I guess unfrozen or... what the hell do we even call it?"

"Awake?"

"Yeah. Awake. That's a better word."

"What about you?"

He felt a shy grin tug at the corner of his mouth. "Nah, it's stupid."

"Tell me."

"You'll laugh."

"I won't. Cross my heart."

Bucky grinned a little wider. "Okay. Dames in poodle skirts."

"What?"

"You know, poodle skirts? Those big full skirts with the little poodles on 'em? And the black and white shoes and the tight-fitting sweaters?"

"You're joking."

"I said it was stupid."

"It's not stupid. But it's just that teenagers wore those. You would have been pushing forty by then. Dirty old man territory, my friend."

"Seriously? When were those in style?"

"I don't know exactly. Sometime in the '50s, though."

"Figures. I just saw a picture of a gal in one once, thought she looked really cute."

"You would've been arrested. Or maybe shot by some girl's father. Probably both. What else you got?"

Bucky frowned, trying to search his spotty memory. "Were… dungarees with big flared legs a thing once?"

"They call 'em blue jeans now, and god, Bucky, no. You can't possibly wish you'd worn bell-bottomed jeans."

"I think I might have once, actually, on a mission. I think I had big platform heels, too."

"What I'd give to see a photo of that."

"There's probably one stuck in a musty old file somewhere in Russia."

"You didn't have a mustache, though? Tell me you didn't have a mustache."

Bucky grinned.

"Aw, no. That's just… no. Bucky. Please."

"Maybe I'll leave one to grow in when I shave in the morning."

"And maybe I'll haul you over to the cryo lab early so you can't." Steve threw a pillow at him. "My team has standards for physical appearance, you know."

Bucky laughed as he ducked. His ribs stabbed him. "Ow. Lucky for me my ribs aren't up for a pillow fight."

"You mean lucky for me. You were a formidable pillow warrior."

… " _Maybe next time I'll put a brick in it, punk!"…_

Bucky blinked away the memory of himself bashing away with a pillow at a very small Steve, who was doing his own bashing right back. "Oh man. I never actually put a brick in my pillow, did I?"

"Nope. Threatened to a couple times."

"Some protector I was."

"You operated on the principle that if anyone was gonna beat me up, it'd be you and no one else."

Bucky stared. "That's… awful."

"No worse than the times I threatened to poison you with my asthma medicine."

"What? Why?"

"I think one time it was because you kept leaving your dirty underwear all over the floor. And another time you ate the last plum without telling me."

"I still like plums."

"If they have plums in Wakanda, I'll keep mine under lock and key."

Bucky smiled, but it faded. "You know, all these memories… when they first started coming back, it was like looking through the window into a stranger's house."

Steve leaned forward a little, but stayed quiet.

"I'd remember something, like the newspapers you put in your shoes, and I wouldn't know if it was something _I_ knew or if it was something I'd read or saw in a movie back then. It was… confusing."

"I bet."

"The more memories that returned, the more I felt sort of split in two at first. All those years thinking I was nothing more than this trained weapon, but I apparently had this… other life. A life that was good. I'd try even harder to remember, but nothing would come and I'd get frustrated. A lot. And scared. See, the thing is…"

"What, Buck?"

"Don't get angry."

Steve pushed himself closer. "Never, Buck."

Bucky looked at Steve for a long moment, trying to sort out his thoughts, trying to find a way to say them without upsetting Steve. He finally looked toward the wall. "When I was with HYDRA. Under HYDRA. Whatever you want to call it. I had... this sort of structure to everything I did. I didn't have to think beyond a mission. Beyond training. Beyond…" He had to clear his throat. "Beyond dealing with whatever pain I had to deal with."

He heard Steve's sharp intake of breath, but he still didn't look at him.

"Not sayin' it was good. But it was what life was. So when it all went away, it was scary. I mean, yeah, it was good, but it was scary. The structure was gone and I didn't have anyone to help me figure out a new one. I had all these memories swirling around in my head that I didn't know what to do with, good and bad both. Didn't know what was real and what wasn't, you know? And I still had all the urges to follow orders, to finish my mission. That's one of the reasons I couldn't stay, after I fished you out of the water. There was a big part of my mind that still felt compelled to follow orders. Still saw you as a mission that had to be completed. Wasn't sure I could hold myself back."

"So you walked away."

"Yeah. HYDRA wanted you dead, but I… didn't. Wasn't the first time I didn't follow orders, but it was the first time in a long time." He tried to give Steve a reassuring smile, but he was sure it was more bitter than reassuring. "They'd improved their corrective techniques over the years."

"Bucky."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Just… it's all in the past now. Except that apparently it isn't, if what happened with Zemo is anything to go by."

"I don't think you'd snap spontaneously. I've seen enough of you to know that you have good control over your mind, so long as no one says any of the trigger words."

"I hope so. I mean, I think I do. But I guess now the head doctors here will want me to dredge it all up and it kind of scares me."

"Will you be able to face it?"

He shrugged. Took a long time to answer. "Not like I have much choice, I guess." He grimaced. "I've faced worse and I'm still here."

A minute of heavy silence ticked by before Steve finally sighed, "I'm sorry, Buck. For all of it."

Bucky nodded. "So'm I." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Steve?"

"What?"

"Do you think… no, let me rephrase that. I know you think I'm brave, but… I don't feel very brave anymore. I feel like in a lot of ways I'm just running away from it all. Defending myself, defending you, the team… the world… I know it didn't look like running, but inside, I felt like I was running hard. Still do. Afraid if I stop, the demon inside me will catch up. So I've been hiding and fighting and now here I am, hiding again. I'm supposed to talk to these doctors and let them poke around in my head, but I really just want to keep running and never stop. But I'm also afraid if I keep running, the demon will catch up. Finally take over for good. Even without all those trigger words lurking in my head, I can't trust my own mind in a whole lot of other ways. Can't trust whatever strength I still have to keep fighting off the Soldier."

Steve ran his hand through his hair, staring down at his lap. Finally he looked up. "Buck, I can't say anything about whatever HYDRA might have put in your head. That whole thing… I'm a reasonably intelligent guy but I can't get my mind around it, how to fix it." He smiled faintly. "I can't punch my way through it for you, much as I want to. But I can say this: you were the bravest fella I knew growing up and the bravest soldier in the Commandos. In Bucharest, when I turned around and saw you standing there in your apartment, looking like a damn wild animal about to run, but you didn't, I knew you hadn't lost one single ounce of bravery. I mean that. You should've run, but you didn't. That takes guts."

"Feels more like I was just taking the path of least resistance."

"We were hardly on a care-free walk in the park, Buck."

Bucky looked down at his toes. "I guess. But part of me kept screaming at me to run when I saw you standing there holding my journal." He frowned and gave Steve a mock glare. "By the way, rude?"

Steve grinned. "Had to make sure it was your place. Of course, I should have known by all the clothes wadded up on the floor by the wall and the candy bars on top of the refrigerator. That picture of me in the notebook just confirmed it."

"Anyway. Yeah. I just… there was a big part of me that wanted to run before it was too late."

"But you didn't."

"Nope. And look where it landed me. Broken ribs, collapsed lung, and a missing arm. Again. I swear, Rogers, following you into the jaws of death _is_ gonna kill me some day."

"Oh, I dunno," Steve drawled. "Seems like you're like a cat. Nine lives. Maybe more. Maybe it goes by size. You're about as big as ten cats, so ten cats, nine lives each… you've got 90 lives to use up."

Bucky stared at him for a moment, then just shook his head. "Unbelievable. You're still weird. Maybe even more so."

"Well, Erskine did say the serum amplifies whatever's inside you."

"You never let him see this side of you, did you?"

Steve grinned. "Nope."

"Figures. Erskine would have kicked you out of the program." Bucky got up. "Do yourself a favor, don't show anyone."

"Way too late for that. They know you're my best friend. Doesn't get much weirder than that."

"Well, you know how it is… we weirdos gotta stick together."

"End of the line, pal."

Bucky grinned. "Good night, Steve." He walked back to his room, still smiling.

 _tbc…_

-o0o-

 _Borovitskaya Tower_ , built in 1490, is one of towers situated along the Kremlin Wall in Moscow. It marks the Borovitskaya Gate, which is the only vehicular entrance into Red Square. It's… a very sturdy tower.


	19. Chapter 19

**As always, many thanks for the guest reviews, and your patience at the slow updates.  
**

 **If I were to give this chapter a title, it would be "Steve Is Better At Technology, or Bucky vs. the Keurig."**

-o0o-

A few hours of fitful sleep filled with nightmares and nausea of his own later, Bucky gave up. He slipped out from under the blankets and quietly opened his door. The suite was dim, but a thin yellow glow lined the bottom of Steve's door. He was either up or fell asleep with his light on. Bucky bet on the latter. Seemed he remembered Steve needing the light on after nightmares. Bucky yawned as he padded barefoot to the kitchen. If he had to be awake at the ass crack of dawn, he might as well have a nice cup of coffee. His stomach growled, but he couldn't tell if it was a hungry growl or an upset growl. The rest of the night after he had gone back to bed had been filled with his subconscious raising the curtain on the usual midnight matinee of new and horrible memories. This time it had been a young man, a SHIELD analyst who'd figured out more than he should have, begging for his life as the Soldier raised his fist and…

 _Stop thinking about it, Barnes. You don't do that anymore._

He swallowed hard. Yeah, maybe just some toast. Definitely no pancakes. He opened the pantry door. He found shelves of canned food, pasta, rice, nuts, and, of all things, a box of Hostess Twinkies and a package of Oreos. Not things he would imagine Wakandans imported.

Interesting. Wakanda was full of surprises.

But sadly, the pantry was not full of coffee or bread. He shut that door and looked around at all the counters, but he didn't spot a breadbox. He started opening drawers and finally found one that was hiding a loaf of whole wheat bread. He pulled it out and plopped it on the counter beside the toaster, untwisted the tie and teased open the plastic wrapper. He pulled out two slices and dropped them in the slots, then frowned. This toaster didn't have a lever; it had all kinds of buttons instead. He punched one helpfully labelled "Toast" and the slices slowly lowered into the machine, like little bread elevators.

Neat.

Belatedly, he realized he should have checked to see if there was any butter first, or the toast was going to be terrible. He opened the refrigerator. "Good," he said softly as he spied a tub of something called "spreadable butter." He read the label and saw it was real butter with some olive oil mixed in to make it soft. That sounded strange, but, with some difficulty, he one-handed the lid, peeled back the plastic seal and stuck his finger in it. He scooped out a small blob and tasted it. If it had any oil in it, he couldn't taste it. Soft cold butter. Another wonder of the modern age.

He spotted the very complicated-looking coffee machine on the counter beside the toaster. A rack beside it held all sorts of small, sealed plastic cups. He looked closer and saw that most were coffee, all different flavors, and a handful were hot chocolate or tea. Ignoring those, he looked over the selection of coffee. He had no idea if something called Frangelica Cream would be superior to Wild Kopi Luwak, or if one called salted caramel could possibly be anything but disgusting. He vaguely remembered his father liked Navy coffee, which was brewed with a pinch of salt, but not caramel. The two together in coffee just made no sense, even to a man who liked sweet and salty mixed when it came to pancakes and bacon. Sweet and salty _coffee_ was a bridge too far. He finally found a little cup that was simply labeled, "Wakandan Dark Roast." Finally, something that sounded like the dark roast coffee he bought in a can in Romania to put in his percolator. He grabbed it.

Then he looked the coffee machine over. It was easy to figure out where the mug went, so he got one down from the cabinet and stuck it under where he assumed coffee would squirt out. He saw a power button and punched it. Nothing happened except for a little red light came on that announced it was "heating." Then another light came on that told him to "add water."

Add water where?

He felt a stupid flutter in his stomach combined with a very strong urge to punch through the wall with the metal fist that he no longer had. He ran his hand through his hair and shut his eyes.

 _Comes on, Barnes, you used to be able to rebuild a car engine. You've repaired motorcycles. You've disarmed bombs and disassembled and reassembled every firearm known to man. You've planted computer viruses in mainframes. Surely you can figure out a dinky little coffee machine._

He shook off the stupid feeling of panicked rage and looked carefully at the little machine. There was a silver lever on the top in front, so he lifted it and found a holder for the little plastic cup of coffee.

Okay. Progress.

He looked back at the little cup. It had absolutely no directions on it. Was he supposed to peel the foil seal off? He shook it. Heard coffee rattle inside. He bent down so he could peer into the holder assembly. There was a hollow needle at the bottom, and when he gingerly felt under the raised section, he found a second, bigger hollow needle. Safe to assume the needles punctured the cup, hot water shot into it from the top and then it dripped through the grounds and out the other needle into his mug.

Kind of ingenious, if it actually tasted good.

He dropped his Wakandan Dark Roast cup in and lowered the lever. It closed around the cup with a soft click. But the light still demanded he add water. He ran his hand around the top edges of the machine and found a small lip in the back. He lifted it and, hey presto, the top came off to reveal a little reservoir.

It was starting to look like he might actually get a cup of coffee.

He filled his mug with water and poured it into the reservoir. The little light turned off.

Score one for Barnes.

He punched the button labeled "brew," then stood back and waited.

Nothing happened.

 _Damn it. Why is technology so stupid?_

Maybe he didn't have the coffee in correctly. He lifted the lever, closed it again, and suddenly the little light next to the brew button shone a happy green. He punched the button and almost immediately the machine started hissing and burbling. He started to raise his arm in triumph until he realized he hadn't put the cup back under the spout after he used it to add water to the machine. He hurriedly stuck it back in place and twenty seconds later coffee was streaming fragrantly into it.

Okay, he might be willing to admit that technology might not be entirely stupid. Maybe. He'd reserve judgement until after he'd actually tasted the coffee.

He was stirring cream and sugar into his Wakanda Dark Roast when Steve stumbled into the room, knuckling one eye, hair sticking out in all directions. He grunted a greeting.

Bucky grunted one back. They may have had a heart-to-heart chat in the middle of the night, but the ass crack of dawn before coffee was an inappropriate time for conversation. He was glad to see that the super serum hadn't turned Steve into a morning person.

" _The serum amplifies everything within a man…"_

Good lord. Bad as Steve was in the mornings when they were kids, he might be an axe murderer now. Bucky carefully stepped out of Steve's way.

Steve grunted something that might have been "Excuse me" as he staggered to the cabinet, pulled out a mug, glanced at the coffeemaker, filled the mug with water and unerringly dumped it in the back of the machine. He picked out a little cup, the one called Wild Kopi Luwak. He lifted the lever, pulled out Bucky's little container of used grounds, tossed it in the sink, then shoved the new one into the holder. He slammed the thing shut and hit the brew button. He leaned his forearm on the cabinet above the coffee maker and rested his forehead on it and didn't move until his coffee cup was full. He grabbed it, staggered to the table, put the cup down, pulled out a chair and collapsed into it. He then put his forehead down on the table beside the coffee and didn't move.

Bucky took a sip of his own—the taste was not bad, though not as good as his percolated Romanian joe—as he considered the situation.

If Steve fell asleep that way, his coffee would get cold. Seems like he should mention that. But… Axe Murderer Steve.

He tried gently clearing his throat.

No movement.

He took another sip. Plucked the used little cup out of the sink and put it in the recycle bin. Cleared his throat a little louder.

Steve rolled his head so his cheek was smashed against the table and his nose almost touched the coffee cup. Then he winced because it was the cheek that still had a big bruise on it. He groaned as he straightened up.

Bucky hid his smile behind his coffee cup.

"Shut up," Steve said.

Guess he didn't hide it very well. "I didn't say anything."

"You're thinking too loud."

Bucky put his mug down on the table and took a seat across from Steve. He very deliberately kept his face emotionless.

"The blank murder stare, Buck? You tryin' to give me a heart attack before I've had my first sip of coffee?"

Bucky laughed. "I give up. You're no easier to please now in the mornings than when we were kids."

Steve growled in his throat as he took a swig of coffee.

"So I thought stuff like caffeine and alcohol doesn't affect you."

Another grunt. A shrug.

"I'll interpret that as a yes, but you like the taste? The routine? The whole shebang?"

A nod.

A series of beeps suddenly blared out from the direction of the toaster. Bucky flinched hard enough that he sloshed his coffee on his hand. "Damn it," he muttered. He rinsed his hand off at the sink as he watched his toast majestically rise from the depths of the toaster. He'd be more impressed if the toast was actually dark. He dried off his hand, punched the button again and the toast just as majestically descended back into the abyss.

"Punch 2," Steve mumbled.

"What?"

"2. On the toaster."

"What will that do?"

"Make it toast longer."

"It took half the day as it was. Shouldn't toasters be faster nowadays?"

Steve shrugged.

Bucky found a button with a plus sign on it and punched it twice. The display went from reading "0" to reading "2." Maybe he'd have toast by lunch. He sat back down and resumed drinking his coffee. Steve remained quiet, though the thundercloud on his brow seemed to be breaking up.

"Sorry," Steve mumbled.

Bucky shrugged. "I'm used to it," he said without thinking. Then he realized what his words implied and smiled a little ruefully. "Or I was, once. Guess I didn't learn that in a museum, either."

Steve finally smiled. He raised his mug in a salute and downed it.

"Sometimes—" Bucky stopped and chewed his lower lip.

"What?"

"You not gonna murder me because I'm talking to you?"

"I've had my first cup. I'm good. Sometimes what?"

"I was just thinking that sometimes it feels like it was just yesterday. You and me, Brooklyn. Worrying about the war. Totally clueless about what was ahead of us." He remembered an alley, brushing dirt off Steve's jacket, slapping a brochure about the Stark Expo against his chest. "You know, I think we both went a little on the over-achiever side with the whole 'going to the future' stuff."

Steve made a noise that was something between a grunt and a laugh, but he didn't say anything.

Bucky stared into his coffee cup. "So. T'Chaka's funeral. Are we going to go?"

"No. I still, I dunno, feel like an intruder here, like maybe there's people who wouldn't appreciate a fugitive from the outside showing up to participate in their day of national mourning, if that makes sense. Plus, there's just going to be too many reporters. Can't risk a current photo of me making it out into the world at large."

Bucky felt the familiar stab of guilt. Steve probably would have liked to have attended. "I'm sorry. I keep saying that, but..."

Steve pressed both palms against his eyes. "And I keep saying it's not your fault." When he pulled his hands down, his eyes were red, tired and rimmed with dark circles. For a moment, Bucky swore he was looking at the skinny little guy from Brooklyn.

"Hey," he said, "it's gonna be okay. You know that, right?"

Steve's eyes were as bleak as Bucky ever remembered seeing them, except for the moment Sarah Rogers died. "I wish I did," Steve said.

Bucky wasn't sure what to say, so he reached over and squeezed Steve's shoulder. "Just remember you're not alone."

Steve gave him a weak but genuine smile. Then the toaster beeped and interrupted the mushy moment. Bucky gladly got up to go make his toast. It was just way too early for all this heartfelt crap.

-o0o-

Bucky spent the time between finishing his coffee and toast and Dr. Ifede arrival sprawled on the very large and comfortable couch, alternately dozing and watching the sun rise behind the big mountain. He decided if he ever had a choice, he would live in a house that had a view of a big mountain.

When three sharp knocks disturbed the quiet, he let Steve get the door, but he rolled to his feet when he heard Dr. Ifede's warm laughter. She walked in, her braids done up in yet another scarf, this one with all the colors of a sunset. "How is Bako today?"

"Mabhuti told you about that?"

"I already knew the staff were referring to you as Bako, but he told me you found out. It does not upset you?"

"No, of course not. It's funny, actually. Not as funny as Captain Ronke, though." He smirked at Steve, who rolled his eyes as he set a large plastic tub on the coffee table.

Dr. Ifede waved at it. "I came bearing gifts for you, Bako."

"Me?" Good grief. He didn't need any gifts.

She nodded. "Open the lid."

He did, carefully, and peered inside. He frowned. "Kitchen stuff?"

"Not entirely. These are all things to help you perform daily tasks with just one hand."

Bucky's eyebrows shot up. He reached in and pulled out a plate. It was square and one corner had a raised edge. There was a little suction cup on the bottom in each corner. He looked at her questioningly.

"You push your meat against the raised lip so you can easily cut it. The suction cup keeps the plate from scooting all over the table as you do so."

He could have used that when he was making his toast earlier. He'd had to jam the plate and then the bread against the backsplash. "Wow. That's great." He reached in and started pulling everything out, carefully laying it all in a neat array on the table. There was everything from an automatic toothpaste dispenser to all sorts of kitchen gadgets that attached to the counter with suction cups similar to the ones on the plate. There were angled bowls, combination fork and knife utensils, and even a sponge on a stick that would help him in the shower. "This is all great. Thank you. I had no idea anything like this stuff existed."

"That collection barely begins to cover it all. I didn't, for example, bring you any of the things designed for senior citizens who can no longer bend over to touch their toes, although perhaps, given your actual age…?" Her eyes twinkled.

"Hey, no old man jokes," he said. He bent down and touched his toes, then as he straightened back up lifted his leg in a slow side kick aimed straight up at the ceiling. "Can a feeble old man do this?" he bragged as he held the move, despite the pulling pain it gave his shoulder and ribs as he struggled to hold his balance without a left arm.

Dr. Ifede clapped her hands and he heard Steve mutter, "Damn, Bucky," under his breath, but then he started to wobble and the whole effect was lost. He staggered and hopped and just kept himself from falling flat on his face. He grinned bashfully. "Serves me right for showing off, I guess."

Dr. Ifede laughed, a hearty, comforting sound that made Bucky think of his grandmother, though he didn't have a single memory of her. Just a vague feeling of love and close hugs and the scent of lilac. He looked down to hide the sudden sting of tears in his eyes.

But he wasn't quick enough for the sharp-eyed doctor. "Oh, no, what is this? I am sorry, I should not have laughed at you, my child!"

Bucky shook his head hard, smiling as he blinked away tears. "No, no… it's not… I'm not sad. Your laugh sort of teased out a memory, or an echo of a memory. A good one." He cleared his throat. "I just had this fleeting feeling of my grandmother hugging me when I was a kid."

Dr. Ifede made a sympathetic noise as she came close to him. "I am not your grandmother, of course, but may I hug you?"

He didn't bother replying. He just reached down and pulled her close. She didn't smell like lilacs and somehow he knew she was the wrong height, but the feeling of comfort took him back to a place where he must have felt safe and loved. "Thank you," he whispered.

She patted his back and then stepped back, delicately dabbing under her eyes as she sat down on one end of the sofa. "Look at what you've done, now I am the one crying!" She pulled out a tissue from a pocket.

Somehow Bucky knew she didn't expect an apology, so he simply sat down across from her and waited while she pulled herself together. Steve joined him and whispered, "I'm impressed, Buck. If the ceiling ever attacks us, I'll feel very safe."

"Shut up," Bucky muttered.

Dr. Ifede finished blowing her nose and then said, "I imagine you are wondering what the next step is, so I will tell you. You have an appointment in an hour with Dr. Adeolu, the psychiatrist I told you about."

His heart lurched, but Bucky kept his face impassive. "Where do I go?"

"You have a choice. You may stay here, if you find it more comfortable, or you may go to his office, which will require a driver to take you since you do not have a driver's license in our country and it is too far away to walk in such a limited amount of time."

Going to the doctor's office sounded best. That would allow him to keep this place as a sanctuary of sorts, something he imagined he'd need. "I guess I better call a cab, then." He started to get up.

She laughed. "Sit, my dear! You do not need to call a cab. We have drivers, employed by the hospital. I will make the call for you. And seeing as she will need about thirty minutes to arrive and collect you, I best see to your arm and chest so that I will be out of your way when you get ready."

He pulled off his shirt, moving much more easily than yesterday, as his impromptu kicking display had proven. She went through her usual thorough yet gentle check, pronounced him healing nicely, and with a pat on his right shoulder, she left to go arrange for his driver and to get on with the rest of her own day.

Steve, who had discreetly left the room while she was examining Bucky, came back out. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah." He chewed on a hangnail. "Gotta leave for the shrink in about a half hour. Didn't expect it so quick, somehow."

"You need me to go with you?"

"Might be a good idea. In case…" He shrugged. "If you don't mind, that is."

"Not at all, Buck. I don't exactly have a packed agenda," he added, a tad ruefully.

Bucky gave him a sharp look. "You should probably make an appointment of your own, if this guy's any good."

"What? Nah, I'm fine."

Bucky snorted.

"Seriously, I'm okay."

"That's what you used to say every time you started in on that little cough you got right before a full-blown asthma attack."

"I don't have asthma anymore."

"No, just raging PTSD and melancholy."

"Not that I have it, but it's called depression these days. But what's with you, did HYDRA turn you into a headshrinker as well as an assassin?"

"I read. Maybe I called it the wrong thing, but you have all the signs, my friend, and if anyone's justified in having a touch of messed-up brain, it's you. And Sam. Wanda. Hell, you're all messed up."

"Yeah, well, maybe so, but let's just work on one of us at a time."

"Worst first?"

"You said it, not me."

Bucky gave him a look of disgust, then left him standing in the living area. If he had to talk to a shrink, he needed to have some proper clothes on. Standing around jawing with his best friend wouldn't make him presentable.

He glared back at Steve and his stupid grin one last time as he closed his bedroom door, but as soon it shut, he smiled.

It was nice having a best friend to shut the door on.

 _tbc…_

A/N: Adeolu means "you figure it out; I don't know" in Yoruba, at least according to the Nigerian names website I use. Who knows if it's accurate but if so, I like the irony.


	20. Chapter 20

Author's note: *warns in my best imitation of Steve Rogers* _"Language."_

-o0o-

Their driver was a woman in that indeterminate age range between 25 and 35, tall, though not as tall as either Bucky or Steve, and with the dark brown skin of all Wakandans. Like Dr. Ifede, she had her hair done up in hundreds of braids, though hers were pulled back from her face by a simple navy blue scarf, not the wildly colorful ones the doctor seemed to prefer. After announcing herself as his driver and giving him only a perfunctory glance that never actually met his eyes, she said nothing more. Bucky wasn't sure what to make of that. She hadn't smiled, but neither did she seem angry. She just seemed sort of… aggressively neutral.

Well. Bucky supposed not every Wakandan was outgoing and cheerful. There were bound to be some that resented him being there or who maybe just got up on the wrong side of the bed that morning. Maybe this gal had a kid who was giving her too much sass. No telling. He supposed it didn't really matter so long as she knew where to take him.

They dutifully hurried after her at a respectful distance. When they reached a black SUV with tinted windows parked along the curb, the engine still running, he broke the awkward silence to ask, "Should I sit in the back?"

"Front is fine," she said curtly as she opened the front passenger door. He quickly slid into the seat and reached for the seatbelt.

"No. I will help you," she said. She deftly pulled down the strap and leaned across him to snap it in its latch. "That is difficult for someone with the use of only one arm, and we are running late." She was so quick about it he didn't have time for any worrisome flashbacks to other people strapping him into things. She backed out and shut the door on his thank you.

Steve had chosen to sit behind the driver's seat. Bucky shot him a glance and mouthed, "Wow."

Steve mouthed back, "You okay?"

Bucky nodded, then straightened around as she got in behind the wheel. She pulled smoothly away from the curb and within a few moments they were speeding down a narrow two-lane road with a seemingly endless series of sharp curves but fortunately very little traffic. Bucky tried not to be too obvious as he gripped the door's armrest and instinctively hit an imaginary brake pedal on nearly every curve. If the driver noticed his tension, she gave no sign.

 _God almighty, she drives worse than Steve..._

Speaking of Steve, Bucky realized there was a sort of grim silence emanating from the back seat. He risked a glance at him. Steve had his eyes squeezed shut and appeared to be mouthing a prayer.

He turned around in time to see a warning sign for a hairpin curve with a 12% grade. Their driver approached the curve without slowing and then actually accelerated as they rounded it.

 _Oh dear God…_

Bucky was certain the wheels on his side left the ground, but he grimly set his jaw and did _not_ give voice to the yelp that was caught in his throat. They didn't crash, and it occurred to him as he faced death yet again around the next hairpin curve… _damn it there's a drop-off there's a drop-off THERE'S A DROP-OFF…_ that if the psychologist asked him if he wanted to die, he would remember this car ride and answer with an emphatic _no._

They finally reached the bottom of the mountainside, intact save for Bucky's nerves. He nearly wept as he saw the road stretch out into a wonderfully straight four-lane boulevard. Traffic increased slightly and their driver slowed down to match. Bucky felt himself relax and couldn't hold back a small sigh of relief.

She glanced at him, one corner of her mouth twitching, but that was the only indication that she might have a sense of humor under her emotionless façade. Bucky was glad that he hadn't let out that yelp after all. Or any of the other hysterical screams, prayers, pleas and howls he'd felt building up in his chest. It was like he had passed a test.

As if to confirm that he had in fact earned the right to her respect, she suddenly asked, "Is that the first time you have ridden down the mountain?"

"Yeah—" It came out embarrassingly high. He coughed. "Yeah." Deeper. Much better. "I guess I was asleep on the way up it."

"You came from the airport?"

"Yeah. In an ambulance."

"Then you would not have come up this side at all. The road from the airport to the Royal Hospital is much less hilly because the airport is on the same plateau as the hospital. The road into the city from both is quite tame." She made it sound like it was a kiddie track suitable only for small children and the elderly. "Had Dr. Ifede called me sooner, we would have taken that route, but it is much longer and you would have been 30 minutes late to your appointment. Given you seemed to be fully ambulatory and not in any distress, I took a chance you would survive the thrill ride." She finally looked him in the eye and winked.

It _had_ been kind of fun, in that cheating-death-by-a-whisker-isn't-really-fun-at-all kind of way. Still, he found himself grinning. "Any time, ma'am."

There might have been a small cough of protest from the back seat. Bucky ignored it.

She fell back into silence, but not before giving him a lingering look out of the corner of her eye, a look that lasted just a little longer than it should have given that she was driving.

If it wasn't so ludicrous, he'd almost think she was flirting with him.

Bucky shook his head at the thought, then smiled back at Steve, whose narrow-eyed glare back at him promised a painful death. Bucky grinned wider, then settled back around to watch the city go by.

This part of it seemed very much like any other business district in any other large urban area. Modern steel and glass buildings dominated, mostly skyscrapers with shorter towers interspersed. He saw restaurants and shops at street level, but few actual people walking along the sidewalks. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard—it was mid-morning. Too early for lunch break—but then he remembered their late king's funeral was tomorrow. Maybe most businesses were closed out of respect or to prepare for what was sure to be an elaborate memorial service.

She pulled up to the front doors of one of the taller buildings. Bucky shifted uneasily as the realization that he was about to get out of the car in the open suddenly hit him. "Um," he said, then stopped.

"Is there a problem?" she asked.

"It's just really... exposed."

"My apologies. I should have thought of the need for discretion." She drove around the building to an entrance that was under a portico. Shrubbery and palm trees hid all but the driving lane itself. "No one will see you get in or out of the car here."

He gave her a grateful smile. "Thanks."

"Elevators are across the lobby on your right. Dr. Adeolu is on the fifth floor, suite 512. When you are finished, come down to this same entrance. I will be here waiting."

Bucky unclipped his seatbelt. "Will you have to stay here the whole time?"

"No. Dr. Adeolu's assistant will page me when it is time to pick you up."

"Okay. Thank you."

She nodded, gave him another enigmatic look, and as soon as Steve was out and clear of the vehicle, she zoomed off.

"Well," Steve said. "That was… fun. And by fun, I mean not fun at all."

"You did look a little green."

Steve grinned sheepishly. "Coney Island's got nothing on that gal."

"No, it does not," Bucky murmured, looking back toward where the SUV had disappeared around the corner. _Had_ she been flirting? He shook himself and looked up at the gleaming tower. "Here goes nothing."

Steve squeezed his shoulder, then followed him through the automatic sliding doors. The lobby was spacious, but nothing as grand as the hospital with its soaring atrium windows. There were gleaming marble floors, polished wood beams on the low ceiling and a lot of uncomfortable-looking low sofas and chairs, but no people around anywhere. A wall fountain trickled peacefully behind an unmanned information desk in the corner. Their footsteps clicked quietly as they headed to the bank of three elevators just beyond it. Bucky punched the up button and after just a moment heard a soft ding. The center elevator's doors slid open with a barely audible hiss. They stepped in, and Steve hit the button for the fifth floor. As they moved smoothly upward, Bucky frowned. "Didn't these things used to have someone sitting in the corner to operate them?"

"And they used to play music. Times change."

Bucky grunted an affirmative. An automated female voice announced, "Fifth floor," and the doors opened directly into another big seating area, more bland as to decor but just as empty as the lobby downstairs. There were several offices around it, like spokes on a wheel. Each had glass walls separating the more private waiting rooms from the big seating area, and the windows of each were dark except one, suite 512. They let themselves in. The decor here was much more welcoming: paintings of African wildlife on the walls, soft pillows in bright colors scattered on warm brown leather chairs, none of which were occupied. "Considering the building seems abandoned, they sure want to make sure you can find a place to sit," Bucky whispered.

Steve grinned, but by then they were at the reception desk.

Bucky stepped forward. "I'm James Barnes, here to see Dr. Adeolu?"

The young woman behind the desk smiled warmly. "Of course!" She stood up. "Follow me."

They walked down a softly-lit hallway lined with blue and green carpet that made Bucky think of water. It was all very restful to the eye. Probably good for keeping the patients calm. As nervous as he was starting to feel right now, orange and red zigzags would probably send him screaming back down to the street.

The woman knocked softly on a closed door and when a muffled voice bade them enter, opened it and waved her arm for them to enter. They did and she quietly left, closing the door behind her.

Bucky had an impression of dark wood, lots of bookcases, and a couch with soft pillows and cushions, but his attention was grabbed by a very small, elderly man in a three-piece suit who smiled at them as he came out from behind his huge desk. "Mr. Barnes! Welcome, welcome. I am Dr. Adeolu, but please, just call me Doctor Lu, it is what everyone calls me." He shook Bucky's hand firmly enough, but still, he was so small and so… _frail._

Pterodactyls stirred.

Dr. Lu looked up at Steve. "And you are Captain America! In my wildest dreams, never would I have imagined you gracing my office." He shook his hand and then scurried over to a bookshelf and pulled down a small replica of Steve's shield. There was also what looked like an original war bonds poster hanging on the wall. "You might say I am an admirer, sir."

Steve blushed scarlet all the way to his ears, but he smiled. "Can never have too many of those. Nice to meet you."

The man waved at a couch. "Sit, sit. I will be back with coffee!" He started to hurry away, but turned on his heel. "Unless you would prefer tea or water?"

"Coffee's fine," they both said at the same time.

Dr. Lu laughed as he disappeared through a door set into a wall of bookcases.

"He's gonna think we share a brain," Bucky grumbled.

"We've known each other so long we kinda do," Steve said. He walked over to the bookcase and turned his head sideways to read some of the titles. He sighed. "Yeah, he's a fan. Oh, but wait… what have we here? Why, it's a little statue of _you_."

"What the hell?" Bucky joined him and saw that there indeed was a little 5-inch figure of him gazing grimly into the distance, all dressed up in his navy blue jacket from World War II.

"They sell these in the gift shop at the Smithsonian," Steve helpfully supplied. "You can get the whole Howling Commandos set and arrange them like that big wall mural, in fact. They're a little smaller than these two. Wonder if the good doctor has the whole set somewhere." He wandered over to another bookcase to look.

Bucky grimaced, then looked at the books behind the statue. They were various histories of World War II, including a biography of the Howling Commandos. He also spotted what looked like a collection of comic books from that era bound in an expensive leather cover. "I'll be damned."

"Ha, here's the rest!"

Bucky turned around and looked over Steve's shoulder. There were the Howling Commandos, arranged just like in the mural, including good ol' Cap at the head of the phalanx and Bucky on his left. "Wow."

"Looks like we're in the right place."

"I guess," Bucky said uncertainly. "I just hope he understands I'm not the same person who wore that jacket. And that I was _never_ the person who appeared in those comic books. I don't think I've ever said, 'Golly gee whiz, Cap' in my entire life."

"Not without ending it with, 'you're a fucking asshole,' at least. Tsk, such language you used back then."

"Still fucking do."

Steve rolled his eyes. "So you remember those comics?"

 _Dum Dum was laughing so hard he was wheezing. "They made you into a teenage sidekick! Look at those tights! Damn, son, you got nice knees!"_

 _Bucky snatched the comic away from Dum Dum and threw it in the fire. "I catch any more a' you clowns reading this claptrap and you're on latrine duty until the Lord Jesus Himself comes back, you hear me, morons?"_

Bucky grimaced. "Unfortunately, that was something HYDRA never succeeded in permanently wiping from my mind." He turned away from the shelf. "We better quit snooping and sit before he gets back." He did, gingerly. The couch was firmer than it looked, though, and he didn't sink too far. He'd been nearly swallowed alive on some couches he'd encountered over the last two years.

Steve settled in on the other end. "Comfy enough," he murmured.

Bucky nodded. Ran his sweating hand over his pants and tried without any success to stop his knee from bouncing up and down. _Why did he have to be a little old man? I could snap him like a twig…_ He glanced at Steve, who was looking toward the little statue of Bucky. "Quit smirking," Bucky growled. "He's only got two statues of me, but he's got yours plus a poster and your shield. Probably sleeps in Cap pajamas."

"So long as he doesn't ask me to sign his trading cards, I'm good."

"I remember those." He laughed softly. "You looked so stupid in 'em. Tights and those crazy boots with the big cuffs, throwing that cheesy salute."

"Thanks, pal. That means a lot, coming from my _teen sidekick_. How are those knees looking these days, anyway?"

Bucky picked up a pillow to bash Steve with, but before he could, the doctor was back with a tray and three steaming mugs of coffee as well as cream and sugar. Bucky jumped to his feet to help but realized he couldn't really do much with just one arm. The doctor smiled. "Thank you, but please, be seated again. I have it." He set the tray down on the coffee table and after handing each of them full mugs, pulled his desk chair out from behind the desk and up to the other side of the coffee table.

He sat down and smiled. "So, I am, as you know, Dr. Lu. I am a psychiatrist specializing in trauma-based disorders. I have a long list of educational degrees and certifications that would bore you to tears to listen to, but if it would put you at ease to know the details, I can certainly recite them."

Bucky shook his head. "Dr. Ifede approves you. That's good enough for me."

Dr. Lu smiled broadly. "That is high praise indeed. I shall dispense with my resume, then, and simply tell you that I have been married forty-six years, have six children, twenty-three grandchildren, twelve great-grandchildren and I enjoy bragging about all of them even though I have no pictures of them here. I also run marathons, have a fondness for my wife's chocolate cake that borders on addiction, and I drink far too much coffee."

Bucky smiled, glancing at Steve to see if he found the little doctor just as entertaining. From the wide smile on Steve's face, the answer was yes. He looked back to the doctor and said, "I like coffee, too."

"Ah, we are soulmates already! Now to business: you are probably wondering what to expect from your time with me, aside from the promise of a good cup of coffee and the occasional piece of my wife's chocolate cake."

Bucky nodded.

He took a small sip of his coffee. "Today, we will mostly chat, get to know one another. Afterward, you will be off to have lunch here in the building's cafeteria, which is quite excellent and the only eatery open today, as most non-essential staff have been given today, tomorrow and the next day off, because of our dear late king's funeral. After lunch, you will go to the medical clinic on the third floor for a full physical evaluation. I know that Dr. Ifede has already been caring for you, but her concerns were rightfully centered on your injuries and not on a detailed evaluation of your overall physiology, including and especially that of your brain itself. Now that the injuries are resolving, we will focus on what's going on in your mind. I have read what little information I can gather from the Internet about you and it is obvious that your basic physical makeup was fundamentally changed during your captivity. It is vital we understand what those changes are."

Bucky licked his lips. "Okay," he said softly.

"Tell me how you are feeling about this."

"Nervous."

"I understand. Does it reassure you to know that we will do nothing invasive, that it will be done solely with scans and visual evaluations, save drawing some blood for examination?"

Bucky took a deep breath and let it slowly out. "Yeah," he finally said. "It does."

"And your friend can of course be by your side at all times, if you wish. He may also sit in on any actual therapy sessions, again if it is your wish. You cannot have complete control over your care, but we do wish to allow you full autonomy where possible."

Bucky glanced at Steve, who maintained a neutral expression, letting Bucky make his own decision. "I think it might be best that Steve sticks close, at least at first," Bucky said. "I can't trust my mind not to veer off, get taken over by the Soldier. HYDRA always used trigger words to control me, and I guess you know what happened when Zemo got hold of the words?"

The doctor nodded, his eyes full of sympathy.

"Yeah, I, uh, can't stop the programming at all when that happens. But besides that, sometimes I get flashbacks and forget where I am, start fighting or destroying stuff just because, I don't know, my mind is just broken, I guess. I don't think I'd ever go into full-blown unstoppable Soldier mode without somebody saying the trigger words, but whatever the cause, if I lose it, Steve's strong enough to hold me down."

Dr. Lu asked, "Do these episodes happen often?"

Bucky shrugged. "I've never been actually triggered by any enemies in the two years I've been free, except by Zemo. But I've had nightmares and flashbacks off and on, sometimes a lot, sometimes only once a week or less. I've had some here in the hospital, though."

"Did you become violent during any of the ones you've experienced here?"

Bucky shook his head, glancing at Steve, who also shook his head.

"That is good, young man. Now, may I ask a few questions about the actual trigger words?"

"That's why I'm here."

The doctor smiled briefly. "Are they in Russian or English?"

"Russian."

"Do you know them?"

Bucky nodded curtly.

"I understand that there are ten, in total."

"But there might be others that I don't know about. I remember there being shutdown codes programmed into some of the other Soldiers. I don't know if they ever put any in my mind. Probably safe to assume they did."

"I see. For now, let us focus on the ones we know for certain." He looked at Steve. "Do you know these words?"

Steve shook his head. "Zemo used them when I wasn't in the room. By the time I arrived, Bucky was already in his Winter Soldier persona."

"I understand that these words are written in a notebook—do either of you have that notebook?"

They both shook their heads.

He looked thoughtfully at Bucky for a moment before asking, "If you were to recite them all yourself, what happens? Can you put yourself in Soldier mode?"

Bucky rubbed his hand on his pant leg and shrugged. "Never tried it completely. Just saying the first one..." He didn't finish.

Dr. Lu leaned forward. "Fear not, Mr. Barnes. I will not ask for them right now. When such time comes that we need to know them, we will ensure that you and everyone else are safe."

Bucky nodded. He picked up the coffee cup. His hand shook a little, but he didn't spill it. He took a sip and carefully put it back on the table.

Dr. Lu steepled his fingers in front of his chest, lightly tapping all his fingertips against each other a few times. When they stilled, he asked, "On a different note entirely: how do you feel about the physical exam?"

Bucky shrugged. "Okay, I guess. I mean, if there's something physically wrong with my brain, I need to know. God knows they fried it with electricity and drugs enough times that I'm surprised I have any working brain cells at all."

"Do you have any problems with being strapped down or with claustrophobia? We will do both a CAT scan and an MRI and both are in rather tight machines, the MRI especially so."

Bucky had seen an MRI machine a time or two. Just a table you laid on that they slid into a hole in the wall. He shut his eyes. Imagined himself laying on one. Nothing happened. No increased heartbeat, no trouble breathing. "I think I'll be okay with the MRI. The straps… I don't know. If there's something that requires that, especially if it's a chair…" _That_ thought did make his heart skip a few beats. He swallowed. "Steve better be nearby."

Dr. Lu nodded. He reached behind him to pull a notepad off his desk. He made several notes. "We will try our hardest not to use anything similar to what HYDRA used on you, at least not until well into your therapy when you're farther along toward healing. Now, let me ask you this: if this is the journey of healing—" He turned his pad sideways, flipped to a fresh page and drew a horizontal line across it—"where the trauma starts on the left and wholeness is on the right, where do you see yourself at this time?"

Bucky looked at the line. Leaned forward and put his finger about a half inch from the left end of the line.

Dr. Lu nodded. "All right. Let me show you something I like to call the spiral of progress." He put his pen on the place Bucky had pointed to and drew a small x. "Today you are here. As time goes forward, you will start to improve." He drew a line that rose from the horizontal line in a curve, then stopped when it was perpendicular to the horizontal line. He drew a small star at that point. "Here, you are at your peak improvement, but then something will happen and you will feel like you are regressing." He continued the line so it curved back down until his pen stopped at a place about an inch to the right of the first little x. There, he drew a second x. "Then, the next day comes and…" He repeated the curving loop, capped at the top with a star, and ended it just ahead of the second x and drew a third x. He continued drawing loops with stars in like manner until there were a series of five loops, five stars, and five little x's along the line, the last x several inches to the right of the first x. "At any given time as you fall downward from the top of each loop, you may feel like you are not improving, that nothing is working. But if you look at where you land each time in comparison to where you started…" He left it hanging.

Bucky took a deep breath. That was… fucking _brilliant_. "I'll see the progress I've made." It was stupid, but he almost felt like crying.

"Exactly. I will have a chart made up, something much prettier than my little doodle here, and we will mark each day on it. And as time goes on, the ascent of each loop will be much higher and stretch farther forward before the descent, because you will have more and more days where progress is sustained before you have the inevitable setback. Furthermore, note that the descent will not be to the original path but to a higher point." He drew a long loop, capped with a star, then drew a very short drop and started another horizontal line a good three inches above the original. "Do you see?"

"Yeah," Bucky said hoarsely. He chased away a sudden question about where a return to cryo might fit along that path. Probably somewhere below the bottom of the page.

Dr. Lu frowned. "You look troubled. Can you share your thoughts?"

"You got a degree in mind reading, too?"

He smiled. "No. Just fifty years experience at reading patients' faces."

"I guess my poker face is a little rusty. I'm just thinking about... the big setbacks, I guess. Dr. Ifede told me that returning to cryo is an option if all else fails and I'm still too unstable to be left free."

Dr. Lu nodded. "She told me that was something you had discussed. If all goes well, I hope that cryo will not be necessary. But I will not sugarcoat it: you will have setbacks, probably many at first, and sometimes after great progress, there will be a great crash. But even if some of that progress includes a stint in cryo, we will look at this chart and not lose hope, because you will still be moving ever forward. I will repeat it: cryo does not put an end to progress. It merely slows it for a time. Does that give you some peace of mind?"

Bucky blinked several times and nodded. He had to swallow hard. "Yeah," he finally said. Steve reached over and squeezed his leg. He didn't look at all happy about the turn the conversation took, but he nodded reassuringly.

Bucky stared at those loops, thinking about the future. Thinking about Steve leaving and wondering how quickly he could get to the long loops and the higher road that meant stability and taking cryo forever off the table.

 _Soon. Let it be soon._

 _tbc…_

A/N: wouldn't it be grand if you really *could* get a set of figurines that matched that mural? *sigh* A girl can dream.

The spiral of progress isn't my own invention, but something my daughter's counselor used. I thought it was a brilliant tool for showing the journey of healing. Also, there may have been early references to Dr. Lu as a psychologist instead of a psychiatrist. I'll go back eventually and correct those.

Addendum: several of you have pointed out that metal arms+MRI's are Not Good. Yep. Totally right. That issue will be addressed in the next chapter.


	21. Chapter 21

_**My thanks to guest reviewers and to all of you who are hanging in there despite the slow updates!**_

-o0o-

Bucky was exhausted by the time he dragged himself into his bedroom at the end of the afternoon. He'd been peered at, poked and prodded to within an inch of his life by people and machines, though _not_ with the MRI. The MRI tech had gone apoplectic when Bucky took his shirt off and revealed all the metal in the remnants of his arm.

"Why are you even here?" he demanded, and when Bucky just gaped at him, momentarily at a loss to know how to respond, he threw his hands in the air. "Never mind, you are just doing what you are told. It is not your fault; it is that thickheaded psychiatrist. I have told him and told him about MRI machines, but he refuses to understand that the M in MRI stands for _magnetic_. If even a little bit of the metal in your arm is ferrous, the machine would tear you to pieces and then what would Dr. Lu have to fix? Nothing. He would have nothing because his patient would be splattered all over my machine! Head doctors should not be allowed to ask for tests, that is what I say."

Bucky felt he needed to defend the poor doctor. "I don't think he knew I had metal in my arm. I didn't take my shirt off in his office."

"But it is clearly stated in your records, right here!" He waved his computer tablet at Bucky and jabbed at the screen but turned it away too quickly for Bucky to actually read what it said. "Never mind. Let us get you dressed." He kept on muttering under his breath as he helped Bucky put his shirt back on and was still muttering as Bucky walked away to return to the main examination room.

So, no MRI. But he'd been asked to run on a treadmill, which had garnered quite an audience because, despite lingering chest aches, he easily ran at nearly the same high speeds as the Black Panther.

(Bucky elected _not_ to regale them with tales of the footrace he had run against T'Challa in Bucharest.)

They'd drawn blood and taken a saliva sample, and they'd even taken a sample of his _hair_ , citing that it could tell them all sorts of things about his health even as far back as two years ago, including, if they were lucky, hints of what sort of drugs he had been given by HYDRA. Given how fast his hair grew and that he'd chopped at it now and then to keep it from falling all the way to his waist, he doubted their chances of that, but who knows. Maybe he missed some strands in the back or maybe the HYDRA drugs lingered in the body longer than he realized. The thought hardly cheered him.

They'd tested his breathing, which had involved putting a mask over his face and then immediately after that replacing one of the oxygen-level monitors when the experience came a little too close to what HYDRA had done to him. They'd waved off his profuse apologies and offers to pay for a replacement as they pried the remains of the mangled machine out of the wall and swept up bits of broken glass and plastic from the floor. They'd been too excited at how strong even his normal muscle and bone arm was to care about a piece of damaged equipment.

They'd tested his reflexes (as if knocking the oxygen meter flying wasn't indication enough). His flexibility (yay, showing off his kick-the-ceiling move again). His grip strength (oops, another gizmo cracked to pieces and another stammering apology waved off). They'd stuck electrodes all over his head and looked at his brain waves.

It was all very thorough and they had been incredibly kind throughout, especially over the broken equipment, but in the end he felt on the raw edge of frazzled and absolutely no closer to any sort of healing than he had when he'd crawled out of bed this morning. Dr. Lu had smiled gently, once again reading his mind to assure him that once they had all the test results, they'd be able to work out a treatment plan to get the triggers out of his head. In the meantime, Bucky must be patient and kind to himself and feel absolutely no shame if he struggled to maintain an even keel.

He threw himself down on the bed. No shame. Now there's a knee-slapper. As if he didn't have to swallow a whole cup of shame simply because he could wake up every morning when none of his many victims could.

Steve knocked softly on the door.

Bucky grunted something that he hoped Steve would take as "go away," but must have passed for "come in," because Steve opened the door. Bucky grimaced as he burrowed under the blanket and curled himself around an armful of pillows.

"You okay under there?" Steve asked.

Bucky pulled the blanket aside enough to show his eyes. He shrugged. "'m okay, I guess. Tired."

"It was a long day." Steve looked nearly as exhausted as Bucky felt. He started to lower himself into the chair, but Bucky stopped him.

"That chair is really uncomfortable," he said. "Stretch out on the bed."

"I do that, I might not get back up until morning." But he walked around to the other side and sat down with his back against the headboard. He stretched both legs out with a slight groan. "Strange how tiring it is to sit around in waiting areas."

"Sorry about that. But I appreciate you being there."

Steve shrugged. "You hungry?"

Bucky shook his head. "Too tired to eat."

"How about I fix you a sandwich, at least."

Bucky doubted he could stay awake long enough for Steve to make it back to the kitchen. He curled more tightly into his ball of blankets. "No thanks." He shut his eyes.

He felt Steve pat his head, then the bed creaked and lifted as he got up. If he closed the door on the way out, Bucky didn't hear it.

-o0o-

 _He couldn't move his left arm._

 _It hurt. But he couldn't move it. Couldn't move his right arm to rub it. It hurt it hurt it hurt why did it hurt so bad?_

 _A bright light clicked on above him. Face swam into his vision. Glasses. Smug smile. Swiss accent. Zola. "Ah, Sergeant Barnes, you are awake."_

 _His jaw was locked tight. Couldn't speak._

" _It would have been better if you had stayed asleep, but no matter. You cannot go anywhere."_

 _A scream was building in his chest. His lungs burned with it. The scream wanted out but he couldn't unlock his jaw._

 _A high-pitched whirring noise on his left._

 _He saw the shine of a spinning blade held by a hand clad in red metal._

 _A hand clad in red metal._

 _The blade lowered toward his left arm._

 _Bucky jerked his eyes up to the face again and it was Tony Stark and then they were facing each other in a train with no doors, roaring through a snowy pass…_

" _You killed my parents."_

 _Stark lifted his hand and a beam of light and fire exploded into Bucky's left arm and the train disintegrated around him and he was falling…_

Bucky woke up, his breathing coming in harsh gasps. He fought off the blankets and grabbed at his left arm. The arm that wasn't there. But it hurt anyway. It hurt. There was nothing there but it _hurt_ and then he was crying _damn it stop_ , but he couldn't and the scream that had been caught in his chest came out through his clenched teeth in a high, keening sound like a wounded animal. Then the door flew open and Steve was there, holding him while he shook and choked back sobs.

"Shhh, Bucky, it's okay. I've got you. You're okay. You're safe. Shhh." Steve ran his hand over Bucky's hair over and over. "You're safe. I've got you."

Bucky's words were trapped in his throat again, so he just buried his face in Steve's chest and clung to him until the nightmare finally loosened its grip and the arm that wasn't there stopped hurting.

Steve stopped his litany of soothing words, but he continued stroking Bucky's hair, until finally Bucky straightened. "M'okay," he mumbled as he scrubbed at the tears on his cheeks. He pulled away and sat with his hand covering his eyes. "M'okay."

He heard Steve yank several tissues out of the box on the nightstand.

Steve bumped Bucky's arm. "Here. Blow."

Bucky dried his face and then blew his nose. It was awkward, doing it one handed, but he managed. He pulled his knees to his chest and rested his forehead on them. His breathing was slowly returning to normal, except for the occasional hiccup.

"Bad one, I guess?" Steve asked.

Bucky nodded.

"Need to talk about it?"

He shook his head.

He felt Steve's hand on the back of his neck, large and warm and reassuring. He reached back and squeezed it.

For a long time, they sat like that, quiet, and eventually Bucky's breathing slowed to match Steve's. He raised his head. "Thanks."

A final squeeze of the back of his neck and Steve let him go. "Any time."

Bucky got out of bed and went into the bathroom. He avoided looking at himself in the mirror as he ran the tap and splashed his face several times with cold water. He dried off, then looked back at Steve. "Maybe that sandwich now?"

"You bet."

Bucky followed him into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. He watched in silence as Steve got out bread and mayonnaise and what looked like slices of roast beef. Seeing the sandwich take shape caused the echo of a memory to stir, but he was too tired to track it down and pull it into the light. Turned out he didn't have to.

"You used to love roast beef sandwiches," Steve said. "There was a deli down on the corner that had really great ones. Plenty of horseradish, good bread. So fair warning: this one won't be as good as the ones Mr. Lowenstein made."

Bucky shrugged. It was food. He didn't remember what those long-ago sandwiches tasted like anyway. "Appreciate you making it," he said as Steve handed him the plate. He sat down at the table and took a bite. "S'good," he mumbled.

"I may not be much of a cook, but I can at least slap together a sandwich." Steve brought his own over and sat down across from Bucky. "Oh man, speaking of delis—you remember how sometimes we'd walk all the way across the bridge to eat at Katz's Deli?"

Bucky chewed, then said, "Send a salami to your boy in the Army?"

Steve laughed. "Yeah, that's the one! Man, they had some good corned beef."

"I think… I liked their pastrami on rye?"

"Yep. With plenty of mustard. You'd also get latkes and an egg cream."

Bucky took another bite. Suddenly it wasn't as good. "This ain't that."

"Nope. I doubt they have Jewish delis in Wakanda."

"Their loss." He took another bite.

Steve gave him a long look, then asked, "How you feelin', really?"

"Tired." Foggy and edgy, too, in the way he knew signaled a need to hide away for a good day or two, but that wasn't possible, which only made the fatigue flex its muscles and bear down harder. He took another bite of sandwich so he wouldn't have to talk.

Steve must have sensed his mood, because they ate their sandwiches in silence and even after they cleaned up the dishes and moved into the living area to watch the sun's last rays shining on the mountain, they stayed quiet. Steve disappeared briefly to get his sketchpad and pencils, but as he sat down and put his feet up, all he did was give Bucky a small smile before he started sketching the view.

It was nice. Bucky had been worried that he'd need to fill every moment with chatter, but Steve was just as quiet as he used to be. Bucky vaguely remembered always having a ready comment about just about everything, but that was another man in another lifetime. Steve was the chatty one these days. He watched Steve's hand move with surety and confidence across the paper and knew that when he was finished, there'd be a beautiful pencil drawing of a mountain. He missed that, moments like this at the end of the day when they'd sit on the fire escape and watch the lights turn on around the city. "Glad you still sketch," he said.

"Takes my mind off my troubles. Always has."

"I should probably take up a hobby."

"You used to whittle. Might try that again when you get your new arm."

"Maybe I could learn one-armed juggling."

Steve stared at him for a moment, then laughed. "Just don't break any dishes."

Bucky smiled, then went back to watching the mountain. He slouched lower on the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table. As he listened to the soft scratching of Steve's pencil, he felt a small measure of peace steal into his soul. It surely wouldn't last, but if there was anything he had learned in his two years of freedom, it was to grab those peaceful moments and enjoy them, because the next day held no guarantees.

 _tbc..._

 _Author's note:_ Katz's Deli is a real thing, has been since 1899. It would have been a bit of a hike for Brooklyn boys Steve & Bucky but it also would have been an adventure for them. "Send a salami to your boy in the Army" is also an actual Katz's Deli saying, from WWII when they'd ship salami (and presumably other meats) to the boys on the front.


	22. Chapter 22

_Apologies for taking so long to update!_

 _Mention of past self-harm. Read with appropriate caution._

-o0o-

He woke up gasping. He stared into the darkness, motionless save for the pounding of his heart and the labored rise and fall of his chest as he struggled to calm his breathing.

Same nightmare, new twist: instead of fighting Tony Stark, he was fighting—and killing—Wakandans.

Dr. Ifede, Dr. Lu, T'Challa… all dead at his hand.

He shuddered and tried to rein in the nausea, but it was too strong. He lunged for the bathroom.

He'd long ago mastered the art of vomiting quietly. Even with his enhanced hearing, Steve didn't come running.

When he finally had nothing left to throw up, he leaned back against the wall, clammy and utterly spent. Cold tiles pressing against his skin brought up uncomfortable memories of _isolation deprivation hopelessness_ , but he deserved to feel it all for dreaming up horrors like that.

What kind of demon dreams of killing his friends?

He looked through the door to the bedroom. Warmth, softness... the Wakandans didn't realize that all they'd done was provide a beautiful cage for a monster who might very well kill them all.

He needed to leave. He felt it in his bones. His muscles. Even his skin felt like it wanted to crawl off and escape. He wanted to kick through every wall until he forced a way out and he could run and run until no one could possibly find him.

Bucky took a deep breath. Counted slowly to twenty. Let it out. Repeat.

God, the dream had been so vivid.

 _I don't do that anymore._

… _Yes, you do._

He squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't," he whispered. "I'm not _him._ "

… _You are. You always will be._

Tears squeezed out between his lids. He shoved trembling fingers through his hair. Pulled hard.

 _Breathe._

 _Focus, idiot. Even if I snap—_

— _You will snap._

He ground his teeth together.

If _I snap, they can defend themselves._

 _They can kill me, if necessary._

 _They can kill me._

I _can kill me._

The comforting temptation beckoned to him, but he again pulled at his hair.

 _No no no…not kill. They can_ freeze _me._

Cryo. If all else fails, if the nightmare starts to come true, they could put him on ice until they figured out a new approach.

He let go of his hair and rubbed his face. Opened his eyes. Blinked away the last of the tears. Sniffed.

 _There's always cryo._

The old familiar pterodactyls stirred uneasily at the thought. He had a flashing vision of cables and restraints, the mask and a rush of pain as frigid air wrapped around him…

 _Stop it. It won't be like that. Surely it won't be that cruel._

He'd have to ask Dr. Ifede for more details. Surely the Wakandans were as gentle with cryo as they were with everything else.

Another series of slow, deep breaths finally sent terror into retreat. His hand mostly stopped trembling. He hauled himself to his feet. Turned on the tap and splashed water on his face. Didn't look at his reflection as he dried himself off.

So, he had two choices. Cryo or… running.

The deep compulsion to flee still gripped him. Running had been his way of life from that moment on the banks of the Potomac when he saw that Steve was still breathing until they finally caught him in Bucharest.

Run and hide.

Run and always look over his shoulder.

Run and never let down his guard.

Run.

 _Run._

He paced the length of his room and back again. Dug his fingers into his hair. Took more deep breaths. Sat down on the bed. Hugged a pillow to his chest. Buried his chin in it as he scowled at the floor.

 _C'mon, Barnes, calm down. You can't run anymore. You gotta face down the monster._

 _And hell, if nothing else, you gotta get back to sleep._

He really was tired. He curled up on the bed. Pulled up the covers. Kept the pillow clasped brightly to his chest. Stared into the darkness.

His heart still thudded uncomfortably against his sternum.

Yeah, sleep wasn't coming any time soon.

He tossed the blankets and the pillow aside and went into the kitchen. The clock on the microwave showed him it was 1:37. He quietly poured himself a glass of milk. Be nice to warm it up, but microwaves beeped and hummed. He didn't want Steve coming in and…

Hovering.

Why should that bother him? He needed Steve. Needed his protection. Needed him to be the wall between the Soldier and whoever he might try to harm if the voices in his head took over.

And that was the problem: he hated the idea that he might force Steve into that position.

 _Run._

He really should be far away from humanity. Far, far away until he got his head back on straight enough to stop dreaming of killing everyone.

He finished the milk and walked over to the window. Looked longingly at the moonlit jungle. At the mountain nearly lost in night's shadow. He wanted to climb it. Haul himself hand over… well, not hand since he only had one now, but drag himself over rock and gravel and fight gravity until he was worn to the bone from the effort, because then it would be exhaustion that was _honest_. A fatigue that made _sense._ Aching muscles and bloodied palms needed only simple rest and maybe a bandage. There was no such easy respite from the soul-draining weariness of knowing he'd spent seventy years killing for the wrong side and could still be compelled to do it again.

" _What you did all those years, it wasn't you. You didn't have a choice."_

" _I know. But I did it."_

 _I did it._

… _You'll do it again._

He rested his forehead against the cool glass.

Thought about hitting it hard enough to shatter the glass into jagged shards that would cut through his mind and carve out all the shit HYDRA had driven into every neuron.

Instead he sighed and turned away. He'd tried the pain of hurting himself to silence the voices in his head. He had gone so far as searing his hand on a stove burner, once. Didn't work. The whispers and urges had hissed without let-up in those early days, and as he jerked his hand away from the heat, they had mocked him all the louder. He had never gone to such extremes again, though maybe the whole hair tugging thing was a milder version. He didn't know. He only knew it gave him a momentary distraction, a real pain to combat the pain in his soul and the racket in his head, but he'd learned the hard way that hurting himself badly only piled more hurt atop the misery.

Unless of course he was willing to do the job completely and end it all—

 _No._

He sighed. The temptation never fully went away, no matter how many times he fought it off and vowed not to take the easy way out. It was always there, beckoning from the darkest shadows in his mind. He straightened his shoulders and once more told it that he wouldn't take the easy way out, even if there was a lot to be said for removing himself from Steve's life and letting the man get on with his own. Hell, maybe if he'd just had the resolve to end it all when one of the urges had struck over the past two years, Steve would still be Captain America and still be leading the Avengers where he belonged, fighting the good fight instead of hiding in a jungle kingdom like some star-spangled damn Tarzan.

He rubbed the back of his neck. It wasn't right, them being here. Hiding. The world needed Cap.

It didn't need Bucky Barnes. No one needed Bucky Barnes, not in the shape he was in at the moment.

 _Run_.

So back to that. Getting away from the world and humanity. Hiding. Living an obscure life, like the one he had carved out in Bucharest. Getting _gogoașă_ every morning. Buying plums and remembering to smile and say, "Thank you." Eating candy bars and staying inside and letting the world fight its own battles while he tried to win the one inside his head.

He paced around the living area. Sat down briefly on the couch but his legs itched so he got back up again and paced and paced and paced.

What would happen if he slipped out, disappeared into the jungle? Would anyone try to follow him, bring him back?

Steve would. He'd get the Wakandans to help him, even though Dr. Ifede had said he was free to leave if he wanted.

He ran his hand through his hair again. Did he want to? Really, truly want to?

No.

Just like he couldn't end it all, he couldn't run. He had to see this through.

So. If he couldn't die, couldn't run and couldn't sleep, he needed to write. Needed his notebooks. Nights like this, writing was the only thing that calmed him down. He looked around and spotted a small writing desk in the corner. He hurried over, turned on the desk lamp and found a pen and a small pad of paper in the drawer. It wasn't a notebook, but it would do for now.

He sat down and started writing.

-o0o-

"Bucky?"

Bucky looked up with a start. He hadn't heard Steve come in. "What?" He shoved his hair out of his eyes.

"You been up all this time?"

Bucky blinked owlishly at the darkness of the living room beyond the desk lamp's small circle of light. The window was still dark. He cleared his throat. "What time is it?"

"About 3:30." Steve yawned as he knuckled his left eye. The right side of Steve's hair was sticking straight up and there were pillow wrinkles carved into the left side of his face. Except for the fact that his head was a good ten inches higher than it used to be, it could have been 1934.

" _Bucky, watcha doin' still up?"_

" _Gotta finish writing this paper. Due tomorrow and Cranky Crenshaw doesn't accept late assignments or any scratch outs. Had to rewrite the whole thing twice."_

He looked down at the desk. Four… no, five pages scattered across the blotter, all filled edge to edge on both sides with his small, neat print. Not a single scratch out. He almost smiled. "I, uh, needed to write. Clear my head." He gathered them up.

"You need to talk?"

Probably, but he wasn't about to. "No. I'm, uh… I guess I'll go to bed." He stood up, feeling the weight of every one of his 99 years. He staggered and Steve steadied him.

"You sure you're okay?" Steve asked.

Bucky couldn't stop a bitter laugh. "What a question." He pulled his arm from Steve's grip and walked back to his bedroom. Before he shut the door, he turned his head and, not quite meeting Steve's eyes, mumbled, "But, uh, thanks for asking."

He closed the door before Steve could reply and tumbled into bed, the papers with all his words grasped tightly in his fist.

When he woke up again a few hours later, the day's first light was peeking around the curtains and the papers were still in his hand. He smoothed them out and put them on the nightstand, then went into the living room. He heard soft snores from Steve's bedroom, but on the desk was a stack of new spiral-bound notebooks and a small backpack similar to his old one. There was a note on top of it.

" _Apparently you can get anything you want in Wakanda, even at 4 o'clock in the morning. They're not the ones you lost, but I hope these will do until we get yours back. – Steve"_

There was more writing on the back.

" _PS – don't wake me up before nine, and even then only if you're bringing me a mug of coffee bigger than your head. Kopi Luwak. Yeah, the cat shit kind. Wakanda uses humane methods. Don't judge. – S."_

Cat shit coffee? What the hell.

He rubbed the blue cover of the top notebook, smiling a little. Maybe Steve hovering over him wasn't such a bad thing after all.

But he was gonna have a word with the punk about his questionable taste in coffee.

 _tbc..._


	23. Chapter 23

**Tiny, tiny speculative spoiler for _Spider-man: Homecoming_. I mean, really, it's _tiny_ and won't affect your viewing experience of that movie at all. It's just a set detail and a minor character name that were lovely Easter eggs. Thank you to by7the7sea for giving me a heads up to watch for it.  
**

 **Thank you as always to my guest reviewers and to my Betas Three, only one of whom was available... the rest are lounging by the pool sipping lemonade and/or gallivanting around merry ol' England. Happy summer!**

-o0o-

Bucky stood in the doorway and glared at the snoring lump under the blankets.

He had just googled kopi luwak coffee and his ire at Steve went a long way toward chasing away the angst of the night before.

On what planet was it ever normal to pick up cat shit, pick out the coffee beans the cat had eaten, and then think, "Oh wow, I bet coffee made from these will taste _great_!"

He rubbed his face. Every time he leaves the damn punk alone, Rogers does something epically idiotic. Turns himself into a science experiment. Crashes a plane into a glacier. Wakes up after a seventy-year frozen nap and starts drinking coffee that passed through a cat.

Okay, that's not all he did—there was the whole saving the world several times over thing—but still. What the hell.

 _We weren't that frugal even during the Depression. Dog or cat snatched up a piece of meat that fell from the table, that was that. We went hungry. We didn't wait a day and then fish it out of the litter box and shout, "Finally! Lunch!"_

Just the thought made his stomach turn a little.

He looked at the clock. 9:01 am. He put the cup of Wakandan roast— _like hell I'm ever gonna fix him cat shit coffee_ —on the nightstand. Then he picked up a pillow that had fallen to the floor and launched it across the huge bed at Steve's head.

He missed. Steve mumbled something, rolled over to the far side, and the snoring resumed.

 _Damn it._ Ever since losing the arm, his aim was lousy.

He considered what to do. He decided yanking the blanket off would work. He stretched across the empty expanse of mattress, nearly losing his balance, and carefully grasped the corner by Steve's shoulder. He ran to the foot of the bed, dragging the entire thing completely off the oversized, cat-litter-drinking idiot.

"Hey! What the—" Steve flailed for the blanket but Bucky kept going until it was on the floor.

"Good morning."

"What the ever loving _hell_!" Steve was clad only in pajama bottoms. Bucky could see goosebumps break out on his arms. Steve crawled to the end of the bed, yanked the blanket off the floor and flopped back onto his pillow, flipping the blanket over his head as he did.

"That's for drinking cat shit," Bucky said.

Steve pulled the blanket off his face. "What?"

"I read what kind of coffee that koopy luau—"

"Kopi luwak."

"—shit is. It's disgusting. I raised you better than that."

"Don't knock it until you try it."

"I did not escape 70 years of brainwashing to fix you coffee made of cat shit."

"It's not made of—"

"Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. I made you a cup of normal coffee. You're welcome."

Steve sat up and reached an arm as long as a telephone pole over to the nightstand and snagged the cup. He downed half of it before coming up for air. "Thanks."

"Damn straight you better thank me. Cat litter coffee, my ass. When I'm around, you're drinking normal coffee like a normal person."

Steve just grinned up at him. "Man, I've missed hearing you rant and rave at me."

Bucky felt his face turn red. He spluttered a little, then finally grunted, "Yeah, well… whatever. I'm going to go make breakfast."

He stomped into the kitchen and was opening the bread when Steve came in. "Gonna make French toast, but you don't get any." He pulled out two slices.

"Aw, come on. Please?"

Bucky told himself not to do it, but he glanced over and was waylaid by Steve's stupid puppy dog face. He let out a wordless growl but pulled two more slices out of the bag. Then he pulled out four more. Super soldiers have big appetites and he didn't want Steve hogging all of it. His own stomach grumbled and he pulled out another four. He was a super soldier too, after all. Twelve slices, so six each. Yeah, that should be enough.

"Since when do you know how to make French toast?"

"I know how to make a lot of things." He perused the contents of the pantry until he found powdered sugar and maple syrup. He checked the label. It was genuine. Good.

"Need—"

Bucky glared over his shoulder. _Don't say it… I will punch you if you say need a_ hand _..._

"—help?"

Disaster averted. Bucky put the powdered sugar and syrup on the counter. "Yeah. Get out six eggs and the milk. The small saucepan. And a big bowl."

While Steve did that, Bucky searched the pantry again until he found cinnamon, nutmeg and, oh hey there, actual, honest-to-God vanilla beans. They really were living like the Park Slope swells. He grabbed what he could and after two trips had everything he needed on the counter. "Okay. I hope you like cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla in your French toast because that's how I like it."

Steve had cracked all the eggs into the bowl and was busy fishing out pieces of shell. "Sure, sounds good."

Bucky frowned and inspected the bowl. He pulled out one last bit of shell and held it up. "Seriously? You used to crack eggs one-handed without ever getting the shells in the batter when we were kids. It was your one and only kitchen skill besides eating."

Steve shrugged. "I still sometimes forget how strong I am."

Bucky wasn't sure how to politely respond to that, so he just poured milk into the saucepan and set the burner on low. "Okay, Mr. Strong Man, you know how to get vanilla from the bean?"

"Umm…"

"You don't ever cook, do you?"

"Not really, no."

"Ever watch a cooking show?"

"Nope."

"Do you remember watching your ma cook? C'mon, even I remember watching my ma cook."

"All I know is she boiled everything. Mostly I just showed up for the meal and did the dishes."

"Wait a minute." Bucky teased out a memory of the two of them standing in front of the stove in a tiny apartment. He narrowed his eyes. "You used to help _me_ cook when we shared that apartment."

"You know, the ice is funny. Some memories just…" He raised his palms up and shrugged.

 _Like hell. You just don't want to cook because you always hated to cook._ Bucky let out a long, deep sigh. "You're hopeless."

"When did _you_ watch any cooking shows?"

"Neighbor guy when I was hiding out in St. Louis had cable. We'd sometimes watch food shows together. He liked _Chopped_ and I liked the baking championships." He got out a cutting board and a knife and put the bean on it. "Put your finger on the curly end of the bean to hold it for me."

Steve did so, but he pulled his hand back before Bucky could start slicing.

"For crying out loud, Rogers, I'm not going to cut you."

"So you say."

Bucky once more narrowed his eyes and brandished the knife. "You keep acting like an asshole and I will."

Steve muttered something about bedside manners and Gordon Ramsey, but he put his finger back in place. Bucky neatly sliced open the bean and scraped the insides out with the back of the knife and dropped them into the milk. "Now, put the bean into the milk, too." He smirked as Steve dutifully complied. "See? No super soldiers were harmed in the making of this recipe." He added in the cinnamon, but the nutmeg stymied him. "Steve, look in the drawers, see if there's a nutmeg grater or a microplane." Surely if they stocked whole nutmeg, they'd have something to grate it.

Steve started opening and closing drawers, looking more and more baffled as he went. "What should it look like?"

"Might look like a small curved cheese grater or else a long knife-lookin' thing, but instead of a blade it's got a long, skinny grater attached to it. Kinda like a wood rasp."

"Like I'm a carpenter and would know," Steve grumbled under his breath, but then he said, "Ah ha! This?" He held up the microplane.

"Give the man a prize." Steve held it while Bucky grated some nutmeg into it. "Now we gotta let that steep for a few minutes. You wanna stir the eggs? Unless, of course, you're afraid using a whisk is going sprain your delicate wrist."

Steve gave him a withering look and then dutifully whipped the eggs into a froth and kept on whipping.

"Uh, you can stop now. I don't want meringue." Okay, meringue didn't have egg yolks, but Steve "I only show up to eat and do dishes" Rogers wouldn't know that.

Steve stopped. "Sorry." He dropped the whisk into the sink.

"It's all right. Oh, and I, uh, haven't said it yet, but thanks for the notebooks and the backpack. You didn't have to do that."

Steve shrugged.

"Well, I appreciate it."

They stood in silence while the milk slowly heated and the scent of warm vanilla and spices filled the kitchen. Bucky gave it a couple stirs, then turned off the heat and stuck the whole saucepan into the freezer.

"You making ice cream?"

"Nope. Gotta let it cool a little so it doesn't cook the eggs."

"Oh."

Bucky set the timer for ten minutes, then they both sat down at the table. "So, what do we do with ourselves today while everybody's at the king's funeral?" Bucky was torn over whether he wanted to curl up in a blanket and hide in his room or escape from this gilded cage with someone who would make sure he didn't run all the way to Wakanda's border. Cooking helped and the banter masked it, but deep down, last night's urge to flee wasn't completely gone.

"Well, we probably should stay in the building, make sure no stray reporters catch sight of us. I'm assuming no medical types will drop by to drag you off to therapy or tests or whatever, so I guess I can take you on a tour of the building. I found the weight room, basketball court and pool. There's also a nice courtyard garden. Private but you can get some sunshine."

"There's a gym? Can we… "

When he didn't go on, Steve asked, "What, Buck?"

"Nah, forget it. Not a good idea."

"What?"

"Nah, really. Bad idea. Forget about it."

"Might not be. C'mon. You can tell me."

"I just… I was thinking it might be fun to…" He rubbed his face. This was a monumentally stupid idea. "Okay, fine… I think it'd be kinda fun to spar with you."

Steve blinked a few times.

Bucky hurried on. "Unless you don't want to, of course. I mean, last time it was just you and me one on one, things didn't exactly—"

Steve waved his hand. "No. It's not that. God, no. I trust you."

Bucky looked at his thumbnail. "I'm not sure _I_ trust me."

Steve leaned forward and gave him the same earnest look that Bucky remembered from their childhood. "I don't think you'd lose control. Not for a minute. You're not that guy. Not anymore."

"But what if in the heat of it, I lose it?"

"You won't. We'll keep it light, won't go at it too hard, which we'd need to do anyway so you don't rip out anything."

Bucky experimentally lifted his left shoulder. No pain, not even a… okay, there was a twinge.

Steve saw him wince. "Okay, moot point anyway. You're still not fully healed. No sparring."

"Fine. Maybe we can just shoot some basketball. Haven't done that since the Army."

Steve smiled. "You were good at it."

"Was I?" He couldn't remember. He just remembered enjoying it.

"Yeah. You always cleaned everybody out playing horse. You could hit shots from just about anywhere. Drove Dum Dum nuts, because to hear him tell it, he was the basketball star of South Boston High School, class of 1938. You remember Dum Dum?"

"Bowler hat, stupid mustache."

Steve chuckled.

"But a nice guy," Bucky went on. "When I got sick, after we got captured, he tried his best to take care of me. Gave me half his water ration every day, kept apologizing that he couldn't give me all of it or he would collapse and then who'd take care of my dumb ass."

"That's Dum Dum. Heart of gold."

"What happened to him?"

"He lives with his daughter, in Boston. I saw him about a year ago. He's 96 but still going strong. Maybe when all this is settled, we can go see him. I know he'd love to see you again."

Bucky doubted that, not if Dum Dum had heard anything about him, but the timer buzzed and saved him from going down that dark path. He stabbed at the button to shut it off, then pulled the saucepan out of the freezer and tested it with his finger. Cool enough, so he added some to the eggs.

He started to pick up a slice of bread but stopped. "Oh, wait a minute. Get out the sugar, would ya? The regular kind, not the powdered." While Steve did that, Bucky found a small bowl and dumped some cinnamon into it. Steve handed him the sugar and he added some and shook the bowl until it was mixed. Then he picked up a slice of bread, dredged it in the egg mixture, and put it on the griddle. It sizzled just a little too much, so he nudged the flame down and then dredged five more slices in the milk and egg mixture and laid them all out on the griddle in a neat grid. He grabbed the cinnamon sugar and carefully sprinkled some on each slice. When he was done, he glanced back at Steve. "What about the rest?"

"Of the Howlies?"

Bucky nodded.

"They all survived the war to go on to work with SHIELD or with similar agencies in their own countries." He sighed. "Jones died in battle against HYDRA in the mid 60's. Dernier and Falsworth both died of old age. Morita's like Dum Dum, retired and splitting his time between Fresno, Tokyo and Queens, living with his kids. He's got a grandson who's a principal at a high school in Queens. I met him once, nice guy."

"I'm glad those two are doing all right."

"Yeah. I miss the others. They were good men."

Bucky had only the scantest memories of any of them except Dum Dum. It seemed wrong, to not feel any actual personal grief upon hearing of their deaths. It was like reading strangers' obituaries, and those men had been anything but strangers, he knew that much. "I wish I remembered them better."

"The memories will come. Give it time."

"Yeah," Bucky said softly. "Guess so."

Steve squeezed his shoulder but thankfully didn't say anything more about it. Bucky focused on making the French toast, only burning two slices. By the time they sat down to eat, he'd shaken off most of his melancholy. Bucky lifted his coffee cup. "To the Howling Commandos."

Steve tapped his mug to Bucky's. "To the Howlies."

Bucky smiled a little, then they ate their breakfast in silence.

-o0o-

The gym had a massive rock-climbing wall. Or at least that's what Steve called it once Bucky asked what all the knobby lumps and weird jutting shapes stuck all over the ten story wall were for. He stared at it, his thoughts filled with climbing mountains and raw hands and at the end a brain too exhausted to think. He glanced at Steve. "Do one-armed people ever try to climb these things?"

"Um… I don't know. Seems like it might be kind of dangerous."

Mabhuti had stopped by their apartment as they were clearing away the breakfast dishes to let them know that they were free of all medical consults today, as Dr. Lu, Dr. Ifede and the rest of the population would be attending the King's funeral. So now here they were, staring up at the massive wall. Bucky could see that there were myriad paths leading to the top, some harder than others. He'd have to stick to the vertical portions, give the overhangs a miss, but it looked doable. "I want to climb it."

"Right now?" Steve sounded a tad alarmed. "Before you get a new arm?"

Bucky shrugged. "Maybe not the whole thing right off the bat. Maybe just a little ways, see if it can be done. See how it feels."

"It feels like a bad idea, is what it feels like."

"Says the guy who jumps out of planes without a parachute." Bucky put his hand on one of the handholds and his feet on two footholds. "Don't be a chicken," he called over his shoulder, and he started to climb.

It was difficult, no two ways about it, though aside from a twinge in his ribcage if he stretched too far, he seemed able to do it. He had to make sure to plant his feet firmly and keep his body leaning toward the wall and not away when he transferred handholds, but other than that, it wasn't impossible. He heard Steve moving below him. He looked down. "You might as well go on past. No way you can catch me if I fall."

Steve's eyes widened and he turned a little pale.

Shit. Talk about a poor choice of words.

"Or, um, you can stay there because you probably _can_ catch me." _Dear God, Barnes could you be any more lame?_

Unsurprisingly, his words didn't help. Steve still looked stricken. Same expression Bucky saw 70 some years ago, as he fell…

He tightened his grip.

 _Good job, Barnes. Push both of us into a full-blown flashback._

Bucky ignored the flickering memories that were trying to take over his brain. He glanced at Steve and didn't like the way his eyes were glazing over. "Look. Buddy. This ain't a train in the mountains and Zola's dead twice over. I didn't mean nothin' by it. C'mon, man, you gotta breathe."

Steve blinked a few times and seemed to come back to himself. "Just don't fall," he said, his voice tight.

"You got it."

Bucky kept going. His foot slipped once, but he was still holding on with his hand, so no harm, no foul, even if Steve did gasp and yell his name and the bad memory film flickered again in his head. He took a minute to let his heart quit hammering and then continued upward. He surprised himself when the top came within reach. He wasn't even out of breath.

Damn it. He needed exhaustion and this was nothing more than a vertical walk in the park. Well, a walk in the park with bonus terrible memories and near-flashbacks, but still not all that physically taxing.

He swung himself up over the top and sat gently kicking his dangling feet as he watched Steve finish. Once Steve was sitting beside him, he said, "Sorry about that. Poor choice of words."

Steve shrugged. He was still pale, even for him.

"You okay?"

A curt nod. He lowered his head but not before Bucky caught the tears in his eyes.

 _Damn it._

Bucky reached over and slung his arm across Steve's shoulders. He bent his head a little so he could see Steve's face. "Hey. Steve. Look at me."

Steve did, reluctantly. Tears shimmered on his lower eyelashes and one dripped down to leave a small stain on his shirt.

"You know that I don't hold it against you, right?"

A sniff. Then a nod.

"Okay."

They sat for another minute or two, just breathing. The opposite wall was made of glass, looking out over the expanse of lawn and the sprawling trees where the friendly little monkeys played.

"You ever talk about it?" Bucky asked. "You know, like to a counselor or a psychiatrist?"

Steve rubbed the palm of one hand with the thumb of the other. He might be as big as a house now, but to Bucky he never seemed more like the skinny little sad punk he'd first hauled out of an alley in 1925. "Yeah. Talked with Peggy, right after it happened. Talked with a psychologist Nick Fury had me see when I first woke up from the ice. Talked some with Sam." He gave the end of his nose a swipe with the back of his hand.

"You don't blame yourself, do you?"

That earned him a glare. "What do you think?"

"Yeah, okay. Stupid question."

"I wasn't quick enough. All that super strength and super speed and what good did it do me when it counted the most?" He balled his fists as he stared down at the ground far below.

Bucky kept his voice gentle. "Nah. Wasn't anything like that," he said. "It's all on HYDRA. Their shitty train construction. SSR made that train, the handle would have held. But HYDRA's stuff is junk. Well, except for my old arm. That was pretty good, I guess."

Steve gave him a sidelong look. "It doesn't bother you, talking about it?"

Bucky shrugged. "Not today, anyway." He climbed to his feet. "We good?"

Steve looked up at him. "I'm sorry."

He squatted down again. "Yeah, me too. But if there's anything I've actually come to realize in these last two years, it's that you gotta accept the past but keep lookin' ahead." He gave Steve's shoulder a squeeze and hauled out their corny old chestnut. "Back with you to the end of the line, pal."

Steve's face threatened to crumple, but he worked up a wobbly smile. "Thanks, Buck."

Bucky looked around. "So, um, how do we get down? Same way we came up?" He hoped not. Climbing down was always harder than going up. _Damn it, shoulda thought this through._

"There's some stairs through that door."

"Good."

He offered his hand and pulled Steve to his feet. Steve's eyes still held too many shadows. Shit.

" _Cheer up, punk. I shoulda realized that dame wasn't your type anyway. Her loss. Let's go to Nathan's, get you a hot dog. I'll even buy."_

 _A smile flickered back to feeble life. Steve loved hot dogs. "Thanks, Buck."_

 _Buck ruffled Steve's hair because he knew he hated it. "I'll buy you two."_

Coney Island and Nathan's hot dog stand was a world away, so how else to cheer up a man with way too much guilt on his plate. Bucky glanced out the windows. Spotted a few monkeys playing in the treetops.

He slowly smiled.

"Hey, Steve… I got a great idea about what to do next..."

 _tbc..._

 _A/N: I'm fudging a bit with Gabe Jones, headcanoning that he died in the mid-1960s. The MCU doesn't say when he (or any of them) died, and that would have let him live long enough to have a family and thus eventually Antoine Triplett as a grandson. (And yes, I'm still and will always be forever bitter at Agent Triplett's death, but that's a rant for another day and I have monkeys and hijinks to think about...)  
_


	24. Chapter 24

**_As always, thank you to all of you nice people who leave such nice reviews!_  
**

-o0o-

"No, Bucky. We can't." Steve had on his most disapproving Disapproving Captain America face.

Bucky snorted. Like that had ever worked on him. (Or at least, he couldn't remember it ever working on him, and it sure wouldn't work on him now, not when his mission was to cheer up said Mr. Disapproving Face.) He waved his arm at the big front windows of the building. "Steve. C'mon. There's no one out there but the monkeys." _Who will cheer you up, damn it._

"The way my luck is running, as soon as we open the door, a horde of reporters will swoop down from the sky and ambush us."

It took everything Bucky had to keep his jaw from clenching. He vaguely remembered other times, other places when he had to work his ass off to cheer Steve up. Probably didn't have the ability to do it anymore, after everything, but he guessed the instinct ran deeper than the machines could erase. He might not have a clue how to do it anymore, but he sure as hell couldn't stand here and not try. "Look. The few that T'Challa let in are all at the funeral, just like every other soul in this building but us. I bet the media doesn't have permission to go anywhere but the funeral parlor."

That brought a smile. _Finally!_ "Doubt they're using a parlor. This isn't exactly Grandpa Frank's funeral."

Bucky went blank for a moment. "Did you have a Grandpa Frank?"

"No, but you did."

"Don't remember him." Big surprise there.

"You never met him. He ran off with a waitress from Delmonico's in 1901. No one heard a thing more about him until 1922 when, to quote your grandma, the two-bit floozy he ran off with sent a telegram saying he'd died. Few days later, she got a package with a twenty dollar bill and his ashes inside. Your grandma kept the twenty, bought herself a wringer washing machine and tossed the ashes into the Upper Bay. So I guess no funeral or funeral parlor, but still."

"Holy cow." He couldn't remember any of that, except... "That washing machine. Did it have a white tub, squeaked loud enough to raise the dead?"

Steve nodded. "It was the talk of the building every washing day from then on."

Figures he'd remember a machine and not his own damn grandmother. But he plastered a smile to cover the bitterness as he stared at the sky, trying to concentrate on the sounds of a past that too often stayed just out of reach. "Seems like... yeah... I can hear some old bird saying, ' _Poor old Frank. He's floatin' unblessed with the fishes and Old Lady Barnes is wringin' his neck all over again with every crank of that machine.'_ Am I imagining that?"

"Nope. Mrs. O'Malley in 2B. She never approved of the whole 'chuck Frank's ashes in the drink' thing. Of course, she was on her second marriage to a guy who left his wife for her, so she was a little biased."

"No kidding?"

"No kidding. She was just more discreet about it than the two-bit floozy."

"More of an upscale floozy, then." Bucky shook his head. "Regular soap opera, our building."

Steve grinned. ( _Good job, Barnes, two smiles. We're on a roll.)_ "We had our share of entertainment, no doubt about it."

Bucky looked back out at the monkeys. "Whereas here, the building is empty and boring and monkeys await. Come on." He shoved open the door before Steve could argue further. Warm, humid air hit him like a slap from a wet towel as he stepped outside, but the sunshine felt nice. He grinned back at Steve's scowl. "Stop worrying. It'll be fun."

Steve hurried past, hunching as if he expected a hail of bullets any moment. "At least get over behind those shrubs." He didn't _quite_ dive behind them like a soldier into a foxhole, but it was close.

Bucky took his time strolling over to join him. Might even call it a saunter. Been too long since he'd had a good saunter.

Steve was all but hopping up and down on one foot by the time he reached the relative privacy of the hedge. "Would it have killed you to hurry?"

"Wouldja calm down? No one's within a mile of this place."

A car zipped by on the road, less than a tenth of a mile away.

Steve glared at him.

Bucky gave him a sheepish grin. "At least he didn't pull into the parking lot?"

"Let's just find your damn monkey so we can get back inside."

"Ooh, there's a thought—"

"No! We are not bringing a monkey into the apartment."

Steve looked like steam might start whistling out of his ears, so Bucky chose the path of wisdom and kept his mouth shut. He walked to the edge of the shrubbery and looked up into the nearest tree. "So how do you call a monkey?"

"How about, 'Here, monkey, monkey, monkey!'" Almost immediately, a monkey came hopping down along the branches. "I'll be damned."

"You're a regular monkey whisperer."

Steve raised his eyebrows. "How do you know—oh, lemme guess, neighbor in St. Louis?"

"When the cooking shows were boring, we liked _The Dog Whisperer_."

They stood still and let the monkey come as close as it wanted, which ended up being very close indeed. It stopped by Bucky's feet and let out a screech. Bucky squatted down. "Hey, buddy." He held out his hand and the monkey grabbed it and clambered up his arm to sit on his shoulder. It let out another screech. Bucky grinned at Steve. "Think it's the same one from yesterday?"

"Might be. I can't tell one from the other."

The monkey screeched again.

"Steve, that was a very insensitive thing to say right in front of a monkey."

Steve put his hand on his chest and looked at the monkey with sincere regret. "I am truly sorry. Forgive me."

Another screech and the monkey turned away from him and started picking at Bucky's hair. Bucky laughed at Steve's disgusted expression.

"Yeah, yeah," Steve grumbled. "Laugh all you want, but I'll be the one laughing when it pulls a flea out of that mop you call hair."

Bucky shook his hair all around. "It is kinda long."

Steve laughed softly, a distant look in his eyes.

"What?"

"Oh, just remembered how you were, back then. You had a weekly standing appointment at the barber shop. Hated if even a strand of hair fell out of place."

"I remember," Bucky said, his voice soft. "I guess priorities change." That and barber chairs stirred up uneasy echoes, but he wasn't going to say _that_ out loud, not when the whole point of this clandestine monkey mission was to cheer Steve up.

Steve looked at him long enough to let Bucky know he wasn't fooling anybody, let alone his long-time best friend, then shrugged. "Been thinking about switching up my look, too." He rubbed his jaw. "How do you think I'd look with a beard?"

"Stupid. But then you look stupid without one, so…."

"Guess that serves me right for asking a hairy gorilla for personal style advice."

Bucky grinned, but didn't say anything. He reached up and stroked the monkey's back. "Hey, Mr. Monkey, enough picking. You won't find any snacks in there."

The monkey let out a long string of chatter that only another monkey could ever understand, then it jumped down from his shoulder and ran off.

"Okay, that's our cue," Steve said. "You played with a monkey, now let's go back inside."

Bucky pulled a face, but he followed Steve to the door of the building. Steve opened it for him, but before he could walk in, another monkey, who'd apparently been following them unnoticed, shot through the door and into the lobby of the building.

"Oh shit!" Bucky muttered.

"Bucky, I swear to God, if we get tossed out of Wakanda because we let a monkey into their nice clean building, I'll…" Steve didn't finish the threat as they both chased after it. It screeched as it scampered behind the concierge desk. "Go left," Steve said as he hurried to the right.

Bucky went around the left side of the counter. The monkey was sitting on the desk, looking at the computer screen. It saw Bucky and chattered a bunch of monkey talk as it pointed. Bucky shot a look at Steve. "I think it wants me to turn on the computer."

"We're not turning on someone's computer for a monkey. Grab it and let's take it outside."

"Or it might be fun to just follow it around, see what it'll do—"

Steve actually growled at him.

"Fine." Bucky reached for it, but the monkey was too quick. It jumped toward Steve, caromed off his chest and bounded over to run along the backs of all the couches.

"Damn it!" Steve yelled, grabbing at it too late to catch it.

Bucky ran over to the seating area and vaulted the back of a couch, but once more the monkey darted away. It hopped across a coffee table, over a chair and darted underneath a side table. Steve, muttering enough curses under his breath to make the entire US Navy blush, dropped to his knees and made a grab at it, but the monkey jumped over his hand, ran up his arm and down his back, and the chase was on once more.

Bucky pursued it down a short hallway that ended at a pair of restroom doors. "Ha! Dead end. I got you now, you little—" and the monkey turned on a dime and shot between his legs and back out to the lobby. Bucky skidded a clumsy about-face and ran right into Steve, who had been a little too close on his heels. They fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs. "Damn it, Rogers, give me some room," Bucky growled. He pushed himself to his feet (he may or may not have planted his hand right on Steve's face to do so) and charged after the monkey, who was now perched in one of the potted trees flanking the front doors. Bucky slowed down to a walk. "Easy there, fella. Come on down and I'll give you a banana."

"We don't have any bananas," Steve whispered oh so helpfully in his ear.

"The monkey doesn't know that."

"How do you even know it understands the word banana?"

Bucky glared back at him. "Shut up unless you've got something useful to say."

Steve shut up and tiptoed slowly around to the other side of the tree, by the front door. He pushed it open a little and jerked his chin toward the monkey and then toward the barely-open door.

Bucky nodded, then eased closer to the tree. "One," he whispered, "… two… _three!"_

On three, Steve opened the door as Bucky jumped up and flailed at the monkey. The monkey bared its teeth at him and snapped at his hand, nipping him on the little finger before he could jerk his hand back. God, he'd never missed his metal arm more. In desperate and somewhat pained frustration, he yelled, "You damn dirty ape, get out that door, now!"

To his shock, the monkey jumped down and hopped out the door, as if that had been its plan the entire time.

Steve pulled the door shut and fell against it, laughing uncontrollably. "Did you just say, 'Damn dirty ape?'"

Bucky sighed. "St. Louis. Same neighbor. We also watched old movies. He liked _The Planet of the Apes._ " He looked at his pinky.

"Did it draw blood?"

"I don't think so. Just pinched it good." He shook his hand. "Hurt like hell, but I don't think I'll lose the hand."

Steve's mouth opened, then closed.

"It was a joke, Steve. I'm allowed to make jokes about having one hand. You aren't, but I am."

"Noted." Steve scratched hard at his hair, making it stick out all over. He smoothed it down and looked at the ceiling. "Oh crap. Security will have fun looking at _that_ footage."

Bucky felt his cheeks start to burn, but then absurdity of the whole thing hit him. He looked at Steve, hair all awry, then looked down at himself, missing arm, bruised pinky, sweaty, hair probably just as disheveled from flying around the room chasing a damn monkey—two men could not look less heroic if they tried. He turned around, looked at the camera, and snapped off a salute smart enough to please 1943 James Buchanan Barnes. "Barnes and Rogers' Monkey Pest Control would like to thank you for trusting us to rid you of all your unwanted simian scamps, scallywags and scoundrels."

"Bucky, there's no sound on the security camera."

"Hey, we just found our new career path. Work with me here."

"All right. But we call it Rogers and Barnes."

"Alphabetical sounds better. Besides, it was my idea."

"It was your idea to go outside and let that stupid monkey in."

"Drumming up business, that's all."

"Right now all I want is to drum up a shower. I feel like I'm crawling with monkey germs. Let's get back upstairs." They walked to the elevators and Steve jabbed the up button.

"You barely touched that monkey."

"Doesn't matter."

"You do realize that monkey germs can't hurt you these days, right?"

"Doesn't mean I have to like 'em getting on me."

The elevator doors opened and they stepped in. "Well, thank you for risking monkey flu so we could have some fun."

"Anything for you, pal."

 _I'm not worth all this…_

The thought hit with all the force of a sledgehammer. Bucky leaned his head against the back of the elevator, keeping his eyes on the ceiling in the hopes that the sudden stinging in them wouldn't spill out all over his damn face. Right now was for Steve, not him. He didn't want the black cloud that was his life to cast a shadow over the light that was finally shining in Steve's eyes, but leave it to his stupid brain to try to sabotage everything.

 _Steve's already given up too much for you._

 _Damn it, brain, shut up. For one damn time, just shut_ up.

He reached up and dug at his left eye.

"You all right?"

"Eyelash or something."

"Probably a monkey hair. Complete with monkey germs."

Bucky forced a chuckle. "If I come down with monkey flu, you can gloat by my bedside."

"I'll do it, too. Don't think I won't."

"Yeah, I remember one time you told me I was working too many long hours and that I'd come down sick—"

"Which you did," Steve promptly interjected.

"Which I did. And while I was laying on my deathbed from a cold, you stood there laughing at me."

"No regrets, pal. I was right and you know it. And you weren't dying."

"I can't believe you're still gloating after all this time."

"Doesn't feel that long ago."

"Shit. You're right. God almighty, our lives are beyond weird."

"You could say that."

Bucky smiled again, faintly. This time it wasn't forced. "At least we didn't get kicked out of the apartment because we couldn't pay the rent. I sacrificed my ability to breathe through my nose for a week just to keep that leaky roof over our heads."

"I seem to recall that I fixed chicken soup for you."

"Don't flatter yourself. I know my ma made that soup. You just heated it up on the stove."

With a ding, the doors slid open. They walked to their suite's door and Bucky pressed his thumb against the scanner. With a soft click, the door unlocked and they were back home.

Home. Funny how quickly his brain latched onto that word. Two years of running following 70 years of imprisonment and brainwashing, you'd think he'd need more than an impersonal hospital suite disguised as a posh apartment to call a place home. But he had a roof over his head, he was safely tucked away from anyone who would try to drag him back to HYDRA…

"How 'bout I make it up to you," Steve said, "and fix us some soup for lunch. I can still heat up soup better'n anybody in Brooklyn."

…and he had a good friend by his side. He might not be there yet, not with the mess inside his head, but he almost felt like he was starting to find his way home.

He smiled at Steve. "You're on."

 _tbc..._


	25. Chapter 25

_**Apologies for the looooong wait while I had other writing/critique responsibilities. Chapters should come faster now! Thank you for your patience and as always for all the guest reviews!**_

-o0o-

Bucky wanted to write down all those good things that had happened this morning, so after he hit the shower, he sat at the desk in his bedroom, opened one of the new notebooks Steve had given him and wrote down every last detail, even adding in a half-assed sketch of the monkey. He was terrible at art, nothing like Steve. It looked like a rabbit with no ears and a long tail. Oh well. Maybe he could ask Steve to sketch a scene commemorating the first silly and truly fun time they'd had together in 70 years. They could hang it on their wall.

He stopped. Stared into the middle distance.

Their wall…

"Damn it," he said softly. They didn't have a wall. This one wasn't theirs and God knows when Bucky might be able to leave Wakanda. When he did, chances were pretty damn good the only walls he'd have around him were the ones in a prison cell. Bunking with Steve like they'd done in the old days was a pipe dream.

He shut the notebook.

Maybe this was all… a mistake. Thinking the Wakandans could help. Relying on their kindness. _Taking advantage_ of their kindness.

He didn't deserve any of it. It always came back to that.

How many people had he murdered? Twenty? Fifty?

He had told Tony he remembered all of them. He wished he did, but he knew he didn't. He remembered a lot of them, but how many more had been wiped from his memory? How many more might suddenly burst into remembrance in his nightmares?

How could he _ever_ know? Really, _really_ know?

The dumped SHIELD files might tell him, but he'd never looked through them. He didn't have much access to computers in those early days, and once he started getting a sense of himself, he didn't have the courage to see all his crimes laid out in cold black and white. There was a chance the files didn't contain all his missions, anyway. They were ostensibly SHIELD files, after all, not HYDRA's. He doubted the embedded HYDRA agents would have put any information about him on SHIELD servers. There might not even be anything about him on HYDRA servers. Make a lot more sense to keep Winter Soldier files completely on paper that couldn't be hacked by some teenager in his mom's basement in Paramus.

So. Chances were excellent that there were more assassinations and murders and hit jobs that he didn't remember and wasn't that a barrel of laughs to think about? Probably one of the biggest serial killers on the planet was lollygagging around Wakanda chasing a damn monkey and yukking it up with his best buddy.

His stomach cramped.

Steve's voice from the doorway made him jump. "Hey, Buck, you ready for soup?"

He put the pen inside the spiral of the notebook. "Uh, yeah. Lemme go wash my hands. Um, hand." He jumped up and disappeared into his bathroom before Steve could see what was probably a look of total self-revulsion on his face. He ran the faucet until it turned hot, but even with the tool Dr. Ifede had given him, he couldn't scrub his hand as hard as he needed, hard enough to feel like he was washing off even a little bit of the blood.

 _Even if I had two hands, no way to get rid of all that red…_

He turned off the tap. Looked in the mirror at his eyes, really _looked._

Steel blue. The same color he remembered from so many hours staring at his reflection when he was a teenager, wondering if the girls would think he was handsome or ugly or if that pimple in the middle of his forehead would make him forever anathema to every girl everywhere.

It hadn't. He remembered lots of girls, lots of dates.

 _The band was small, just a combo in the corner, but really jumping, playing all the good songs. He grinned down at Louise Swanson as he grabbed her waist and lifted her up. She grinned back and he was in love…_

Bucky smiled a little. How many times had he fallen in love in the middle of twirling a gal around the dance floor? More times than he could count.

" _So who you marryin' this week, Buck?" Steve asked, giving him a sideways look._

" _Mary Ann Parker. That gal has some dreamy moves, Steve. You wouldn't believe your eyes even if you saw her. Ginger Rogers can't hold a candle to her."_

 _Steve coughed. "Yeah, well, I'll take your word for it."_

 _Bucky carefully hid any sympathy. Steve hated pity, made him mad as a hornet. Even if_ _his asthma hadn't kept him out of smoky dance clubs,_ _being shorter than most girls kept him from ever wanting to try. "Nobody wants a partner they'll step on, Buck," was his favorite response any time Bucky tried to talk him into going dancing._

" _Yeah, but one of these days the right partner will come along, you just wait and see."_

" _Sure, Bucky. Whatever you say."_

It felt like another person's life, those days. That Bucky's eyes had held a thousand dreams with nothin' to stop him reaching them. This Bucky's eyes were a ghost's, filled with ghosts. They were eyes that didn't know how to fix his life, didn't know how to go forward after seeing a thousand battles and a thousand deaths.

These eyes were a stranger's.

 _Who the hell is Bucky?_

Tears burned and his eyes started to turn red. He turned the tap back on, cooler this time, and splashed himself until the red faded. He sniffed, pressed a towel hard against his face, then turned away from the mirror.

Steve was putting bowls of soup on the table as he came in. "Hope you like, uh…" He picked up the can to read the label. "Okay, no idea how to pronounce it, but from the picture on the label, it's got chicken and a bunch of vegetables in it."

"Sounds fine." Bucky sat down and looked in the bowl, glad to have a legitimate excuse to keep his face hidden behind his hair. He stirred it around with his spoon, not really seeing it at first, but then curiosity got the better of him. It sure didn't look like any chicken and vegetable soup he'd ever had. It was thick and sort of bright brownish yellow, for one thing. There were carrots, so that was good, but there were also pale discs of something that looked carroty but wasn't. He scooped one up and looked it over. Turnips, maybe? Parsnips? Hard to say. There were also dark green things that might be spinach but probably was some esoteric Wakandan leafy vegetable. Or it might be spinach. Who knows. There were…. He squinted. Peanuts? Weird, all of it, but it smelled good. He took a careful bite, blowing on it first so he wouldn't burn his tongue. It tasted… interesting. Very spicy with an unmistakable peanut flavor.

"'S'good," he mumbled. He tucked his hair behind his ears and started eating, enjoying it more with each successive bite, especially after the heat from whatever pepper was in it started to build. He loved spicy food, the hotter the better. Helped him forget he had ever been frozen.

Steve sat down and took a bite. He winced, then grimly shoved it down just like when he was a kid and had to finish all his boiled cabbage before he could leave the table.

"Don't like it?"

Steve shook his head. Bucky wasn't certain, but he thought he saw tears in the corners of Steve's eyes. Steve's nose was definitely getting red.

Bucky got up without a word and poured Steve a glass of milk. He plunked it down by Steve's right hand. "Drink."

Steve chugged the milk like his throat was on fire, which it probably was.

"I take it you don't like spicy food?"

Steve coughed a little and cleared his throat. He swiped his eyes and nose. "Nope. Not like that, anyway. Is that _peanut butter_?" He looked a little green.

"I think so, yeah. I read somewhere that peanut soup is a thing in Africa. You gonna finish yours?"

Steve shook his head, so Bucky grabbed his bowl and took it to his place. Between bites, he asked, "Will the funeral be televised?"

"Dunno. Might be. Wanna watch? Unless…"

"Unless what?"

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. "It won't stir up any bad memories?"

Bucky stared at him.

"I mean, I know you were innocent of all of it, but I, um, I mean… it kinda started all of the…" He waved toward Bucky's missing left arm.

Bucky resolutely shelved all the guilt he'd been feeling. "You mean it started me down the path toward all of the good things I've got right now? Safety, reunion with my best friend? Good food to eat?"

Steve turned a little red. "Never mind. I just didn't—"

"Look, pal, it's okay. I understand. And I appreciate it. But it's fine, okay? I mean, I gotta start focusing on the positive, right? Ac-cen-tu-ate the positive and all that?"

"You remember that song?"

"Would it be bad if I said I was kinda glad I fell just to get that earworm outta my head?"

Steve's face was a sight. He was caught between mortification and laughing and it was a toss-up over which would win. Finally he just shook his head. "Guess I oughta put away the kid gloves, huh."

"Yeah. Burn 'em. I'm _fine_." Okay, not really, but at least when it came to Steve finding him and all the events, including Siberia, leading to his arrival here, he actually had no regrets. Nothing Steve could do about the rest of it that wasn't okay. That was what Dr. Lu was for. "Turn on the TV so we can pay our respects the only way we can."

Steve went to the living room and looked around. "I don't guess there's a TV in here."

Bucky looked at the walls and then spotted a remote on a side table. "There's a remote, though."

Steve picked it up and aimed it vaguely around the room as he pressed the power button. A painting Bucky coulda swore on his Great Aunt Beulah's grave was real faded away and footage of a huge crowd of Wakandans took its place. "Wouldja look at that," Steve said.

"You mean Stark doesn't have one of those?"

"Nope."

Steve turned the volume up, not that it helped since everything was in Wakandan. "Should we keep watching?"

Bucky shrugged. "Maybe leave it on, but mute it. We can at least see what Wakanda looks like while we do… whatever."

"And 'whatever' would be…?"

"I dunno. Read a book?"

"You have one?"

"No. You?"

"There's a few on my tablet, but they're mostly political or military biographies or books on tactics. _Art of War_ , stuff like that. Oh, and _Lord of the Rings_ is on there."

Bucky wrinkled his nose. War damn sure wasn't art and he didn't have the powers of concentration required by Tolkien, though he'd made it through _The Hobbit_. "Got a deck of cards?"

A head-shake.

"Wanna go find that monkey?"

That earned him a glare.

"Fine. You sketch and I'll watch."

"Sounds kinda boring for you."

"I remember watching you, back then. I liked it. I still like watching people create things, like that lady with her lace in Romania. It… helps." He didn't figure he needed to spell it out in any more detail.

Sure enough, Steve merely nodded as he disappeared down the hallway to retrieve his sketchbook. "I can sketch some of the funeral," he called over his shoulder. "Maybe some of their outfits. It all looks pretty amazing."

It did, at that. Bucky had assumed the service would be in a temple or church or something, but with the thousands of people gathered in a large amphitheater-like stone hollow, he knew there couldn't be anything short of a football stadium big enough to hold everyone. A lot of people wore black, but there was also a lot of yellow, which must be the color of mourning here. Some people wore very elaborate robes and capes, especially the Dora Milaje, who looked stunning and deadly as they stood at attention along each aisle of the seating area and across the back of the platform where T'Challa's throne stood. Above the platform was a huge bas-relief of a panther's head. T'Challa himself was resplendent in all white, the panther claw necklace prominent around his neck. He was speaking, his face animated and his arms waving at times to emphasize a point, but the language wasn't anything Bucky remotely recognized, so he tuned it out in favor of simply watching faces and expressions. There seemed to be a universal sorrow shared by all. T'Chaka must have been a helluva beloved king. He remembered T'Challa's words… very large shoes to fill indeed. Bucky could see that just from the camera panning the crowd.

Steve returned with a pouch full of pencils and a small sketchbook. He plopped himself down on the couch and patted the spot on his left. "Sit here so I don't bump you with my arm."

"Or more like I don't bump you." Bucky settled down beside Steve, far enough from him not to interfere but close enough to watch. "Just don't draw me."

"Audience members can't give orders."

Bucky smiled but didn't argue. He just watched as an image of the grotto on television emerged as Steve's sure hand drew strong and steady lines on the page. Before any time at all had passed, he had put down a highly accurate sketch of the assembly, with the central focus on T'Challa as he stood before everyone, arms raised, looking toward the horizon as though searching for a sign his father's spirit was at rest. Steve added shading and texture to T'Challa's face and soon had a portrait of a man showing strength and peace despite his sorrow. Bucky swallowed and blinked a few times. Steve might be a superhero and a punk, but damn if he still wasn't one of the best artists Bucky had ever seen. "That's really good," he said. "Good doesn't actually cut it, but yeah, it's good."

"You think?" Steve squinted at it. "Not sure I got his nose right."

"It's perfect. You got his expression right and you can tell it's T'Challa, and that's the important part. You should show it to him next time you see him."

Steve's ears started to turn red. "Nah. It's just a work-a-day sketch. He probably has the best artists in the world on retainer, painting his portraits. This is amateur land."

Bucky settled farther back against the couch, sliding down so he could lay his head on the back cushions. He yawned. "Don't care. They're not as good as you."

Steve let out a little huffing noise of mild disagreement, then kept sketching. The soft swish of his pencil against the page worked its usual calming magic and Bucky felt his eyelids drooping. Before much time at all had passed, he fell asleep, but a few hours later, the Winter Soldier woke up.


	26. Chapter 26

_Thank you to all my guest reviewers!_

 _ **Strong language. Strong emotions.**_

-o0o-

"Bucky! C'mon, Bucky, stop! You're James Buchanan Barnes! Your name is James. You're Bucky. You're my fr—damn it… ow… stop! Okay… okay… shhh… I'm sorry. It's okay, you didn't mean it. You're safe. You're okay… okay… I got you. It's okay…"

Dark. Panicked voice in his ear. Pressure around his chest. Across his legs. Something hard beneath him. Lungs burning.

… _32557038…_

"C'mon, Bucky. It's me. It's Steve. You're okay."

"What…"

"You're okay. Guess you had a nightmare. Forgot where you were for a minute, but it's okay… it's okay…"

 _Warehouse… machines… needles… straps… Zola…_

"Steve?" Pulling the name out of his memory was like slogging through a muddy bog. Why was it so hard to think? Zola musta done something… given him something…

"Yeah, it's Steve. I'm here, buddy." Steve sounded out of breath. "You're Bucky and I'm Steve."

… _The man on the bridge… I knew him…_

Bucky blinked. Tried to focus his eyes. Saw only shadows and realized it was his hair. Tried to reach up to shove it away, but Steve had his arm pinned to the floor.

… _Your work has been a gift to mankind…_

… _I need you to do it one more time…_

God, what had he done?

His injured ribs ached.

His head throbbed.

Past and present were all jumbled up in his brain.

… _You're. My. Mission…_

Dread and terror shoved bile up into his throat. "Steve," he croaked. "What… did I… are you…"

"You didn't do anything. It's okay. Just breathe."

"Did I hurt anyone?"

"No. I'm the only one here and I'm fine. Just breathe."

So Bucky breathed. In and out. In and out. _Breathe. Focus._ Breathe. Focus. Find himself despite the noise and static and confusion in his brain. After one last deep breath as the word _Wakanda_ settled over his consciousness like a soft blanket, he sighed. "Okay. I'm okay. Let go."

Steve slowly loosened his death grip and lifted himself off of him, letting go of his arm last. Bucky shoved the hair out of his eyes and squinted up at Steve. There was blood flowing from his nose. "Aw, damn it, Steve. I'm sorry."

Steve dabbed at the flow with the back of his hand. "It's all right. Just a nosebleed. Didn't break anything."

Bucky looked around the room. He was on his back on the floor in front of the sectional couch. The coffee table was shattered into fragments. The back of the one section of the couch he could see was destroyed. There were fist-sized holes in the wall beyond it. He looked at his hand. The knuckles were bloody and swollen. "Oh god, no," he whispered. "No, no no…no… I thought I was just dreaming… I shouldn't have been able… I thought I had this under control… I thought…"

"It's okay, Bucky. It was just a flashback. You're okay."

"But I destroyed stuff. I _hurt_ you!"

"Shh. I'm fine. It's just a nosebleed."

Bucky pushed himself up until he was sitting with his back against the couch. The view of the destruction was even worse from here. "Oh god. I destroyed the furniture. They're gonna kick me out. They're gonna kick _you_ out because of me..." He tried to control his breathing, but panic was taking over.

Steve laid his arm across Bucky's shoulders and gave him a small hug. "Nobody's going to kick either of us out, Buck."

"I'll pay for it. I don't have a lot of money, but I'll work it off—"

"Bucky, stop. Calm down. No one's going to blame you. It was a flashback. You didn't have control."

Bucky pushed himself away from Steve and lurched to his feet. "That's just it! I _don't_ have _control_. It's just like Berlin... damn it, I _knew_ this would happen...I can't be trusted!" He staggered to his room and slammed the door. Steve didn't follow.

Bucky paced in the dark, quiet bedroom. Ran his shaking hand through his hair, over and over.

Just like Berlin.

No control.

He paced back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

He didn't have control.

He was dangerous.

If that had been someone besides Steve, they'd be dead.

 _Dead._

Steve said he wasn't to blame.

Steve was wrong.

The worst of it was, this _wasn't_ just like Berlin. No one had said any trigger words. He had simply gone to sleep and somehow lost control.

"Damn it," he whispered.

More pacing.

No one seemed to understand that _blame_ wasn't the issue… it didn't matter if he didn't _mean_ to kill someone. Some poor soul would be dead and it would be his hands that had done it. Period. End of discussion.

 _End of discussion._

God, he was so tired of talking about it. Tired of _discussing_. He hadn't even had a true first session with Dr. Lu yet, and he was already done with telling people how he felt. Tired of just the thought of someone trying to make him feel better about himself. There was nothing that could erase his past. Nothing that could make him feel better about it. _Nothing._ Everybody could yammer on all they wanted about brainwashing and torture and Stockholm syndrome and every other syndrome in the book, but it still came back around to the fact that he had done all those horrible things and he couldn't be sure the Winter Soldier wouldn't take over his brain and start doing them all over again.

He slumped to floor on his knees and hung his head.

He just couldn't do this anymore.

-o0o-

A light knock on the door roused Bucky from his fixation with the floor between his knees. It felt like lifting five-hundred pounds of bricks, but he looked up. "What?"

"Bucky, this is Dr. Lu. Your friend Steven tells me you are having a bad time?"

Dr. Lu? Damn it. Why would he be here? He should be at the funeral with everyone else.

Bucky was too tired for this.

He struggled to his feet. His legs were so stiff he wondered how long he'd been sitting there. He smoothed out his hair and clothes as best as he could, then opened the door. Dr. Lu smiled up at him. He must have come straight from the funeral, because he was dressed in traditional robes of black with a zigzag stripe of yellow and red. He wore a small, round flat-topped cap of the same colors and pattern. "Come in," Bucky mumbled. He didn't meet the doctor's eyes, just shuffled to his bed and sat on the edge of the mattress. Went back to staring at the floor and trying not to think about anything.

Dr. Lu's shoes made quiet clicks against the floor. "May I sit beside you?"

Bucky shrugged.

The mattress dipped as Dr. Lu settled down about an arm's length away. He made a tut-tutting noise. "Your hand, may I see it?"

Bucky shrugged. Dr. Lu gently took it, rotating it this way and that. "Can you make a fist?"

Bucky did.

"Does that hurt?"

A head-shake.

"All right. That is very good. I doubt there is a break of any sort. Now, just a moment please," he said as he got up and went into the bathroom. Bucky heard him run some water and then he was back, his sleeves rolled up and a wet washcloth in one hand. "I will clean this for you, if that is all right?"

Bucky nodded. "Sorry I dragged you away from the funeral."

"Do not fear, it had ended before I received the call. Even if it had not, care of the living comes before honoring the dead." Dr. Lu gently pressed a warm wash cloth here and there on Bucky's hand. "Steven told me what happened," he said, his tone mild. "Would you like to tell me about it yourself?"

Slow head-shake.

"All right." His voice remained calm. Undemanding. Which of course made Bucky feel like he should say something.

"I… don't remember much."

No answer, so he risked a glance. Dr. Lu looked up from his ministrations with his head cocked, a kind smile on his face. Bucky dropped his gaze back to his hand as he cleared his throat. "I musta been dreamin'. Don't really remember, but when I woke up Pierce's voice was in my head, so I guess it was probably in my head during my dream."

"Pierce being the late Alexander Pierce?"

"Yeah. My handler."

"The Winter Soldier's handler," Lu corrected gently. He continued carefully cleaning the blood off Bucky's hand.

Bucky shrugged. The line was apparently so fine between him and the Winter Soldier it might as well not exist.

"What was Pierce saying?"

A long hesitation. "Stuff he said to me in DC. Before he sent me out to defend the Project Insight helicarriers. They wiped me, but I remember bits and pieces, I guess. Like with other memories. Stuff comes back, you know?"

Dr. Lu folded the washcloth and set it on the floor as he gave Bucky an encouraging nod.

Bucky sighed deep and long and cradled his forehead in his hand. The need to cry—or maybe scream with rage—was pushing hard against his chest. "I don't know. I… I guess I fought Steve? I musta punched him. Maybe threw him around, if the busted-up furniture is anything to go by." He scrubbed at his face. "God, I'm such an idiot."

"Tell me, do you still hear Pierce's voice right now?"

Head-shake.

"All right then. That is good. You overcame the memories yourself. That is progress."

Bucky shook his head again.

"You do not agree?"

"Done that a lotta times. Isn't progress," he mumbled in a voice thick with unshed tears. He swiped the back of his hand across his eyes. Tried to still the tremble he felt in his arm and chest. He wrapped his arm around his waist and bounced one knee up and down. Stared at the floor. _Do not break down… do_ not _break down…_

"Bucky, I can see you are feeling very upset, and that is completely normal after such an event. You told me in my office that deep breathing helps. So I would like you to do that now, if you can?"

Bucky managed a jerky nod.

"All right, then. Follow my lead. Breathe in through your nose, slowly. Hold… hold… hold… now let it out through pursed lips, slowly. Relax your shoulders, your neck and jaw... yes, just like that. And again…"

He led Bucky several more times through the cycle and Bucky finally started feeling a little less like he was about to explode.

"How do you feel now?"

"Better."

"All right then. That is very good. Now, may I ask a question?"

He nodded.

"Steven told me you were afraid that you would be kicked out of Wakanda, because of the damage you caused during this episode. Does that still concern you?"

A nod.

"All right. Let me assure you, that is definitely not going to happen. We could hardly call ourselves compassionate if we deported struggling people over a few broken sticks of wood and fabric."

"Thank you," Bucky whispered. He still kept his gaze on the floor.

"Steve also said that you offered to pay for the furniture that was broken."

This time he did look up and straight into Dr. Lu's eyes. "I will. I promise. I don't have a lot of money but I'll work it off in trade. Anything you ask."

"Restitution is very important to you, is it not?"

Bucky nodded. "Everybody keeps telling me nothin's my fault, but my hands did it, so I, uh..." He took a breath, cleared his throat. "I mean, I can't go back in time, undo what I did. Give all those people their lives back, but I figure since my hands did those things, my hands should do something good now. It's, uh, the only way I can live with everything I—I…" His voice broke so he just sort of waved his hand. Hopefully Dr. Lu would know what it meant.

Dr. Lu's voice was gentle. "All right. That is very good. Very, very good."

Bucky shook his head, but his breathing was all messed up again. He held himself rigid against the overwhelming shame. _Don't cry. Don't fucking cry. You don't deserve the comfort of tears._

"If you need to cry, there is no shame in it."

Another head-shake, this one more violent. "Shouldn't cry. Not about this."

After a pause, Dr. Lu asked quietly, "Were you ever punished for crying?"

"Yeah," he said, his voice too rough for his liking, but he knew no amount of clearing his throat would help. "This ain't because of that, though. It's just that… I remember when I was seven or eight, my dog died. Got hit by a car when we were playin' fetch and I threw the ball too hard and it went into the street. My fault he died. Cried my eyes out. But…" His voice locked up.

"Take your time."

He clenched his jaw, forced himself to breathe. "I remember killin' Howard and Maria Stark… he had been a friend… and I didn't feel _anything._ How fuckin' screwed up is that? I cry for a dead dog but not for a man I _murdered?_ "

"Did you cry when the memory of Howard Stark's death returned, once you were freed from HYDRA's control?"

He nodded.

"All right. Tell me, if you can, and I do not need details, but when you were imprisoned by HYDRA, did they use pain as the punishment for crying, in order to keep your emotions in check?"

Another nod.

"All right. Think on that. Can you understand why you would not have cried while the Winter Soldier was killing those people, but then recently, you were able to cry at the memory of what happened?"

"Yeah. I guess." It still cut him like a knife that he had been able to kill people without feeling remorse. Without feeling _anything._ "It just… to cry now feels like too little, too late. Like I'm just being self-indulgent or something." He remembered crying in the hospital room a few days ago. Yeah. Self-indulgent.

"What are your thoughts now, when you think of Howard Stark?"

A tear ran down the side of his nose and dripped into his lap. "Regret. Lotta regret and rage that I let the Soldier do it. He had been a friend. He had a family. A son. Tony. He became an orphan because of me." He sighed. "We fought, in Siberia. Me and Tony. Guess you know that. I might have let him kill me if it weren't for Steve. I was afraid he'd go after Steve. Couldn't let him do that. But it tore me up, just standing there helpless while he watched that video of me killing his parents. A part of me wanted to smash the monitor, keep the truth from him, but I knew I couldn't do that. Had to see it through. Deserved whatever punishment he'd dish out, 'cept Steve was there and that made everything more complicated. But I hate that I wanted to hide the truth. I can't do that. Never want to do that. I gotta own up." Another deep breath.

After a long moment where Dr. Lu must have been making sure that was all Bucky had to say, he said, "I am glad to hear you say that you want to own up to your past, to be responsible even down to feeling the need to make recompense for the furniture you damaged. That is a strong sign that you are in control, even though it may not always feel like it."

"Not so sure it says I'm in control. Just says I know it's the right thing to do."

"And what is it that makes you feel that way?"

"The way I was raised, I guess. Just… I mean, you break something, you replace it."

"Would the Soldier care if things were broken?"

"No."

Dr. Lu nodded as he crossed his legs and laced his fingers over his knee. "Here is how I see it: for a brief moment today, perhaps twenty or thirty minutes at most, the Soldier made an unwelcome reappearance. You were, however, able to overcome his influence."

Frustrated tears burned in Bucky's eyes as he shook his head. "I didn't, though. It was Steve. It was all Steve. He held me down, called to me until I came back to myself." His leg started bouncing again as he tried to take some deeper breaths.

"Tell me what you are feeling right now."

It took a few minutes for Bucky to put his fear into words, and when he did, all he said was, "Steve's leaving."

"And you are afraid you cannot overcome the Soldier on your own?"

"I can't do it. Don't know how. Not strong enough or somethin', I dunno. I just know that without Steve around to rein me in, it's a damn certainty I'll hurt someone." The tears spilled over and down his cheeks. "I can't do that. Can't live with knowing I might hurt someone."

"Let me offer you some hope. Tomorrow, I want you to come to my office. After we chat some more about today and how the rest of your night went, I will take you to meet our security personnel, the men and women charged with keeping both the staff and our patients safe. I think it will allay your fears quite a bit."

He doubted it, but he nodded.

"Let me tell you something else to think about: it is good to see that HYDRA and the Russians did not, in the end, destroy your conscience. A man with a conscience has formidable strength of will."

"Not sure I have enough conscience left to be as strong as I need to be."

"I think you do, young man. And I also think you will learn this sooner rather than later."

Bucky hoped so. God, did he hope so. The thought of Steve leaving left him all hollow inside. But if there were someone here as strong as Steve... maybe. Maybe. He refused to allow himself much hope, though.

"Now, before I go, I must ask if you feel you might try to harm yourself."

"I don't. I admit, I'm scared and unsure and worried, but… yeah, I won't kill myself. Can't do that to Steve." He stared at his hand, then added slowly. "Can't do that to Bucky Barnes."

"Can you explain what you mean by that?"

"Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 32557028, United States Army. He had a mom, a dad, sisters, friends in the Army… he had a life, once upon a time. He was a soldier, fought and died, sort of, for what's right. He deserves to have a life again, if I can figure out how to give it to him."

"I have no doubt you will be able to figure out how to let Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes live his life once more. The desire to do so is the most important step, after all."

Bucky gave him a wan smile. "Thanks."

Dr. Lu stood up. "I think you will be all right for now, so I will leave and let you rest. But yes, I want to see you first thing in the morning. I will arrange a driver to bring you to my office."

Maybe the race driver gal… "I'll be there."

"Steven may come, of course, though I will want to speak a good portion of the time with you alone."

"Okay."

Dr. Lu started for the door, but suddenly turned on his heel and came back to stand in front of him. He leaned forward and looked into Bucky's eyes. "Do not think for a minute that this episode has undone all the progress you have made. Remember the spiral of progress."

"I will. Thank you."

Dr. Lu patted his shoulder. "I will have Steven bring you antibiotic ointment and bandages for your hand. There should be some in the first-aid kit in the kitchen. Also ice. Hold it on your knuckles for ten minutes every hour until bedtime. If it swells more or becomes more painful as time goes by, we may need to x-ray it to be certain nothing is broken."

Bucky couldn't help but smile a little. "No MRI, though."

Dr. Lu slapped his forehead. "Oh, the scolding I got from that technician! He threatened to tattoo it on my hand!" He laughed. "You are quite right. No MRI. Until tomorrow, then."

"Yes, sir."

One last smile and a pat on his shoulder, then Dr. Lu left. Bucky heard Steve's voice murmuring and the door to the apartment open and shut. He counted quietly in his head. He'd barely gotten to five when Steve knocked softly on the door. "Buck?"

Bucky crawled into bed and rolled up in the blanket. "Yeah."

The door opened. Steve stuck his head in but didn't enter. "Need anything?" was all he said.

"A new brain," he mumbled under his breath, but then a little louder, "No. I'm okay."

Steve nodded. He started to close the door, but Bucky sat up. "Wait."

Steve stopped.

Bucky crawled out of bed and went to the door. "Let me help clean this place up."

"There's a maintenance crew coming that'll take care of it."

Bucky shook his head. "Needs to be me."

Steve nodded, and Bucky followed him out. He had a lot of work to do.


	27. Chapter 27

_**A/N: a few conversational tie-ins to Mr. Fix It, which you might enjoy, though it's not necessary to have read that story to understand this chapter. Thanks as always to all my guest reviewers.**_

-o0o-

Feeling a little like his feet weren't hitting the floor as solidly as they should, Bucky went into the kitchen and, without looking at Steve, found the broom closet and a broom. He went to the nearest edge of the destruction zone and started sweeping debris up into a pile. A few moments later, Steve joined him with the dustpan and the kitchen trash can.

It was awkward, sweeping with just one hand, but Bucky persevered, shaking his head when Steve offered to trade. He needed to do the hard work, even if he was lousy at it. Needed to let the soft swish of bristles against the marble floors help plant his feet more firmly to the ground. Help his brain settle back into place. He kept a steady rhythm as they silently worked around the room.

Sweep. Breathe in.

Sweep. Breathe out.

Focus on the job.

Sweep. In.

Sweep. Out.

Watch the shattered glass and splinters of wood and dust go into the trash.

Watch the damaged room become a blank slate.

Don't think about it any harder than that.

Breathe.

With the floor finally cleared, Bucky pushed the broken sections of the sofa against the wall near the door. He put his hand out to stop Steve from laying the shards of coffee table on top of them.

"What's wrong?" Steve asked.

Bucky studied the sofa sections. He didn't feel like talking. Afraid it would tip his fragile hold on equilibrium into chaos again, but he had to know. "Is there…." Sure enough, any sense of calm fled. His heart started thumping wildly. He took a breath, let it out. Another. Why did he always feel so... fragile after flashbacks? Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Bucky?"

He shook his head, holding up his index finger. _Gimme a minute, Rogers._

Steve waited, patient but worried. His permanent expression lately.

Bucky took another breath. Held it. Two. Three. Release. Heart still pounded. To hell with it. He blurted, "Is there any way we can fix this?"

"You mean repair the sofa, or are you talking in more general terms about… generally everything?"

Bucky shot an irritated glance at him."The sofa. Fix the sofa. Seems like I remember we would never throw stuff out just because it was broken. We'd fix it, right?"

If Steve noticed Bucky's words spilled out to fast and too breathy, he didn't say anything. He just dropped the wood pieces on the floor. "Back in the day, sure. People have more money than skill now, so they usually just replace stuff, unless it's a family heirloom. I doubt this sofa is anything special, other than a nice piece of furniture."

"Oh. Stupid idea, I guess." Bucky kicked the wood closer to the couch. More deep breaths.

"It's not stupid. Just not practical, in this case."

Bucky wondered how practical it was to try to fix _him_ —he was hardly anybody's heirloom _—_ but he didn't say it out loud. He picked up the broom to put away, but he stopped and looked over the room first. It was better, but the balanced lines of the room that gave it such beauty were destroyed. "Damn it."

"Bucky, it's not your—"

Bucky shoved the broom at Steve. "Don't say it. Don't say anything."

Steve took the broom without a word and started for the kitchen.

Bucky followed him. "Don't ever tell me what I've done is not my fault."

Steve scowled. His jaw started to jut. In fact, his entire body seemed ready to explode in denial. He put away the broom and dustpan with a little more force than necessary.

"I mean it, Steve. It doesn't help. Not even a little."

It took almost a minute and a lot of rubbing of the back of his neck and staring at the floor, but Steve finally turned around and said, "I'm sorry."

"No, don't apologize, either."

"What the hell am I supposed to say, then?" Steve snapped.

Bucky was almost relieved to see the anger in Steve's eyes. It beat pity all to hell. "Nothing. Just… don't say anything."

Steve took several deep breaths, his jaw working. "Fine. I'll stick to, 'Gee, wonderful weather we're having.'"

Bucky couldn't help glancing at the window. His lips twitched. "It's raining."

Steve let out an exasperated growl.

The ridiculousness of everything finally snapped him back to something closer to normal, or at least as close to normal as he would ever get. "Look, I'm sorry," he said. "I don't mean to snap at you. I'm just… trying to sort through all of this and part of doing that is learning to live with all the shitty stuff I did. That my hands did. I don't really know how I'll do that, but I do know that denying I had a part in it won't help me make amends."

"All right," Steve said after a reluctant pause. "I won't say anything unless we're having a good conversation and you want me to say something."

"Fair enough." Bucky looked around. "I want to pay for the damages."

Steve nodded, but wisely said nothing. He was learning. Good man.

"How much do couches like that cost these days?"

"Well, when I bought a couch for my DC apartment, which wasn't this big, I paid $1,200, and it was on sale half off. Sectional like this one is probably closer to $5,000, maybe even $10,000 or more if it's the kind of stuff Stark gets. I have no idea."

"Ten thous—? Holy shit." Bucky rubbed his jaw. "Well, I'll have to ask them how I can work it off, then. I had a coffee can with a couple hundred bucks in it back in Bucharest but that was all I had to my name. It's probably in an evidence locker in Berlin, if it didn't end up in the pocket of one of Ross' goons."

"Maybe your landlord has it."

Bucky snorted. "Then it's as good as gone." He slid down the wall to sit on the floor, his back to the wall. God, he was tired.

"There's still two good sections of the couch, you know."

Bucky shrugged. He pulled his knees to his chest. Rested his forehead on them so he didn't have to look at the wreckage. "You remember the last thing I ever said to you, on the train?"

Steve lowered himself to sit beside him. "'I had him on the ropes.'"

Bucky turned his head so he could see Steve. "Next thing I knew, they had _me_ on the ropes. And it feels like they still do, in a lot of ways."

"You've still got a lot of fight left in you. I've seen it."

"You think?"

"I know."

Bucky studied Steve for a long moment. "And if I don't?"

Steve said nothing. The stubborn set to his jaw spoke for him.

"You're gonna leave in a day, maybe two."

"And you'll be in good hands while I'm gone."

Bucky didn't answer. He trusted those hands, but he didn't trust his own. Didn't trust his mind. _What if I slip like this, only I tear apart people instead of upholstery? What if. What if. What if._ The question pounded his brain with each heartbeat. He felt his hand start to shake so he straightened out his legs and slipped it under his thigh. He laid his head back against the wall with a soft thump. Shut his eyes. "I still don't think I'm worth all this."

"You are. You're a good man. Always have been. The world will learn that. _You_ will learn that."

"I'm not the guy you knew, Steve." Days like this, he wasn't entirely sure he could even be called a human.

"I know."

Bucky highly doubted it.

As if he could hear Bucky's thoughts, Steve went on. "I know you're not the same. Guy goes through what you went through, it'll change him all the way down to the soul. But I also know that your soul—your heart—is a helluva good one, better than anybody's back in the day and as good or better than anyone else's today. You just… need time to heal. And a safe place to do it."

"Sometimes people don't heal." _Sometimes people stop being people._

"You will." Steve was nothing if not stubborn.

Bucky smiled, but he didn't feel amused in the slightest. "And then hey presto, the world suddenly loves me? I don't think that's how it's gonna go." _Especially if I hurt the people trying to help me…_

"No. There's no magic bullet. Wish there was. But time will show them." He thought for a minute, then added, "You don't owe the world anything, Buck. You can disappear, check out of society. Live a quiet life, keep to yourself."

"Hard to make amends if I'm living in a cave."

"What did you do in Romania? You stayed off the radar, but you didn't isolate yourself completely."

Bucky finally opened his eyes to give Steve a sidelong glance. "You mean how did I work off my penance?"

Steve grimaced. "You know I didn't mean it like that."

"Sorry. I didn't really do a lot. Still too busy trying to keep my head together. Figure out if I was still a person or if I really was too broken to fix."

Steve drew a breath to lodge his usual you're-a-man-not-a-machine protest, but Bucky held his hand up in front of Steve's face to stop him, adding a glare for good measure. When Steve's jaw snapped shut, he said, "I just made sure I was kind to people, mostly. Always wished I could do more. Figured Bucky Barnes would do more, so that's what I tried to do. Who I tried to be, even if most days I was more fucked-up machine than Barnes."

"Permission to speak?"

Bucky snorted. "Granted." He knew what was coming.

"You're not a machine."

Nailed it. "Future permission denied."

"So put me on KP duty the rest of my life, but I'm gonna have my say in the matter and my say is that you're as human as they come and probably more human than a lot of people I've come across. That you strive to make amends and tried to be kind proves it. Machines don't do that."

Bucky stared into the middle distance, his thoughts going back to Romania, to St. Louis… all the way back to Washington DC in those early moments after Steve finally unlocked the hold HYDRA had on his brain. Would a machine have dragged Steve out of the river? Would a machine have worked in a food pantry in St. Louis? Would a machine smile at a lady selling plums in a Bucharest street market?

Maybe Steve was right. Maybe not. Time would tell, he guessed, and in the meantime there was the whole 'you owe it to Bucky Barnes' thing to keep him going. "Anyway. Living in a cave isn't going to cut it. Can't make amends doing that. Hiding in Wakanda isn't going to cut it, either, though I'm grateful I can be here for now."

Steve sighed. "I don't know how it's all gonna go, Buck. You, me. My team. We may all end up living in a cave together."

"Nah. Some big green monster from outer space will swoop down and suddenly all will be forgiven as everybody screams for Captain America and his team to come back and save the planet."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not depend on an alien invasion to restore my reputation. Rather stay in a cave."

"Liar."

"Well," Steve drawled, "maybe if it's a _small_ alien. Easily handled, but dangerous enough to restore my worthiness."

The relief Bucky felt at the change of subject from is-Barnes-a-person-or-a-machine to invading space aliens almost left him shaky all over again. "Since when have invading aliens ever been small?"

"You ever watch _Alien_? The movie?"

"Never heard of it."

"I won't spoil it, but the alien in it isn't all that big."

"And they made a movie about it? Sounds lame."

Steve actually laughed. Loudly. "You have no idea, Buck. No idea. You gotta watch that movie someday."

"Maybe we could watch it tonight, if they have a copy?"

"No," Steve said, very firmly. "You are in no shape to watch that movie. Not today."

Bucky shrugged. "Someday, then. I think I remember liking scary movies."

"Are you kidding me? You saw _Nosferatu_ and had a three-week-long freak out."

"No."

"Yes." Steve laughed softly. "It was so bad, Buck. You were eleven and I was ten, and we snuck into the theater through a back door, watched the movie from the back side of the screen, hiding behind some boxes. It was dusty and damp back there, plus people in the front of the screen were smoking their cigarettes and cigars, so naturally I caught a cold a couple days after. You insisted that it wasn't a cold but that, like the sailors they thought died of plague in _Nosferatu_ , I'd really been bitten by a vampire and would die."

"No." He could not have been that boneheaded as a kid, surely.

"Oh, that wasn't even the worst of it. You kept crying, for nearly three weeks, because you were sure that your sister would have to sacrifice herself so the vampire would die without killing anyone else. Drove your mother out of her mind."

"I did not."

"You did, my friend. You most certainly did. That was the last time you let me drag you to a horror film. That was the last time I _wanted_ to drag you to a horror movie. God, you were impossible."

Bucky had absolutely no recollection of that, and he was kind of glad. "And now you want me to watch a scary alien movie? Kind of an asshole move, Rogers."

"Yeah, well, I forgot how horror movies affected you. So sue me."

"I might." Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. "Back in the bunker. In Siberia. Stark called me 'Manchurian candidate.' Is that a horror movie?"

"Depends on your point of view. It's about a brainwashed soldier. For me, knowing what you went through… I'd call it a horror movie."

"Oh. Have you seen it?"

"No. Not going to, either."

Bucky nodded. Didn't sound like something he'd enjoy watching, either. Too close to home.

Steve started to fidget. "Look, can we get up? Sit on the sofa?"

Bucky answered by climbing to his feet. The room still looked wrong and stirred the pterodactyls to life, but he didn't want Steve to be uncomfortable because of his guilt. He settled uneasily on the section with a missing arm, letting Steve have the intact end. He looked out the big window at the sky beyond the mountain. "For the record? Aliens do come, I'll fight alongside you. Even if my head isn't altogether clear yet, it'll be clear enough to handle aliens, and they won't know code words."

Steve nodded, his face sober. "We get something like the invasion in New York, it'll be all hands on deck." He winced. "Sorry. Poor choice of words."

"I can shoot one-handed. And when the bullets run out, I'm really good at stabbing things."

"Hopefully by then you'll have a new arm."

Bucky shot him a look. "Now you sound like you _expect_ aliens. I was just speaking, I don't know, metaphorically."

"I've learned to expect anything, especially if it's bad. We all have, even Stark. That's how we ended up with the whole Sokovia fiasco. He wanted to create a way for the Earth to be defended without relying on the Avengers. Didn't really go as planned."

"I guess he meant well."

"Oh yeah. He did. He just…" Steve didn't finish.

"You two ever gonna be able to patch things up?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe you should write him a letter."

Steve shrugged.

"At least let him know how he can reach you. In case of aliens."

"I don't want to reveal our location."

"So get burner phones, one for you, one for him. Untraceable numbers and all that. Somebody here in Wakanda can probably figure out how to supply you with that."

"I'll think about it."

They fell silent. Fatigue settled heavily on Bucky's shoulders, but he wasn't sure he dared fall asleep. Maybe if he went into his bedroom, curled up under a heavy blanket, it might be okay. Or maybe he should watch a non-horror movie, keep his mind from spiraling down into dark places.

He was still contemplating what to do when a knock came at the door. They both stood and Steve opened it . He stepped aside with a smile and a welcoming wave of his hand, and Dr. Ifede came in, looking at Bucky with worried eyes and a kind smile, carrying a platter of chocolate chip cookies.

 _tbc..._

-o0o-

 _Author's notes:_

 _re: little Steve & Bucky hiding behind the theater screen: According to projectionscreen-dot-net: "In the late 1920s, cloth screens were fashioned from a cotton muslin type material which was webbed, eyeleted and stretched across wooden frames on the front wall of the auditorium…"_

 _The original_ Nosferatu _(which means "vampire" in Romanian) was a silent film originally made in Germany in 1922, but released in the United States in 1929, just in time to hit Bucky at his most impressionable age. Count Orlok was the titular vampire and at one point in the film uses a ruse of bringing a coffin full of rats onto a ship to cover the fact that he kills everyone on board, leaving investigators to assume it was the plague's doing. Also, there were no garlic cloves or crucifixes in the movie. Instead, the vampire was defeated by… well, I'm afraid it'd be spoilery to say how, but it had something to do with a beautiful, pure-in-heart woman. The movie is on YouTube. Google it and watch if you're interested. For a silent movie made in 1922, it'll give you a shiver, even if you are more accustomed to modern horror fare.  
_


	28. Chapter 28

_**Thanks as always for all the lovely reviews!**_

Dr. Ifede was the last person Bucky wanted to see right now. He wanted to run to his room, hide himself and his shame away from her, away from everyone. It was as if he was back in Romania, in the dusty shadows of his apartment, staring at Steve Rogers standing in the anemic light of his kitchen. He swallowed hard. Watched her, as he had once watched Steve, waiting for the disapproval, the disgust…

Dr. Ifede clicked her tongue, handed the plate to Steve and marched straight over to Bucky, not giving the ruined couch so much as a glance. "My dear child," she said as she opened her arms and engulfed him in a hug.

For a moment he remained stiff, ready to hold back the Soldier with every cell in his body. _Don't you dare harm a hair on this woman's head._ _Don't do it don't do it don't you dare do it…._

She patted his back and whispered, "Feel no shame."

Something broke inside and the waterworks started. He bent over her, holding her tightly as he fought a useless battle against the tears. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Shh, shh, shh… there is no need for tears. It is only some damaged furniture. These things, they are to be expected now and then. You are hardly the first patient to have broken things." She pulled back far enough to give him an impish look. "I will let you in on a secret. We have an entire warehouse full of furniture just like this. That is how inconsequential this truly is."

Bucky couldn't speak, so he just nodded as he took a shaky, deep breath.

She gave his arm one last squeeze, then stepped back. "Are you a bit better than you were earlier?"

Was he better? Maybe? He was in his own confused mind instead of the Soldier's, so he guessed that was something. He finally shrugged. "I guess."

Her eyebrow went up. "Do not lie to your doctor."

"I'm better. At least, better than I was an hour ago. I'm, uh… I'm _here_." He hoped she understood, because he didn't know how else to put it.

She must have, because she nodded and patted the sofa. "Sit, please."

He sat.

She pulled a stethoscope out of her pocket. "I want to check your ribs and your lung."

He endured the press of the cold stethoscope and only winced a little when she pressed on the area where the chest tube had gone in. She saw it. "I do not think your pain there is new. I think it is tender merely because it is still healing inside." She phrased it almost as a question.

"Yeah, it's not any worse."

"It will be tender for a while longer, I think, even for you and even if you do not toss furniture around. Puncture wounds take time. But it doesn't seem like you did any further damage to yourself, so we can be glad of that."

He didn't reply.

"Now, I want you to eat a cookie."

Bucky didn't think he'd be able to hold it down—all the poking and prodding had stirred the already-fidgety pterodactyls into full flight—but Steve was shoving the plate in his face. He grimaced but took a cookie.

When he didn't immediately bite into it, she patted his knee. "Eat. It will help you feel better, trust me."

Bucky took a bite. Chewed. Tasted like sawdust, which was damned unfair to whoever baked them.

"That's more like it," she said. "Do you know that carbohydrates help with stress?"

Bucky nodded. "Read that somewhere." Didn't seem to be helping this time, but oh well. The pterodactyls came around so often now he was thinking of giving them names.

"Give it a few moments." She looked up at Steve. "And you, sir. Are you injured?"

Steve shook his head. "Nah. I'm fine."

She raised an eyebrow at him but he merely gave her a small smile. She looked back at Bucky. "Does your friend ever lie about his health?"

"Eleven times out of ten, yeah."

She gave Steve the eye.

"I'm fine," he protested. "Poke all you want. There's nothing injured."

"I will take your word for it, but if I find out later that you have lied to me, you will not like the result."

"I'm not lying!"

She made a skeptical little humming sound as she carefully folded her stethoscope.

"Thanks, pal," Steve muttered at Bucky. Then, as Dr. Ifede turned away from him to tuck her stethoscope into her bag, he glared at Bucky and mouthed, " _Asshole."_

Bucky saluted him. With one finger.

Steve rolled his eyes and disappeared into the kitchen to put the cookies away.

Dr. Ifede laughed. "Ah, the friendship between you two is a rare gift."

"I probably shouldn't be giving him hell like that, but I remember that we ragged on each other constantly, before. It feels right, you know? He's basically the brother I never had." Then loud enough for Steve to hear, "And sometimes the bratty brother I wish I didn't have now."

"That can be arranged," Steve called from the kitchen.

Bucky's smile faded. "See, that's the trouble," he said softly so Steve wouldn't hear. "Pretty soon he won't be here." The pterodactyls started putting on a damn air show. _Oh look, it's George and Gracie and Dumb Dora, startin' up another barnstorming tour…_

Dr. Ifede took his hand and started rubbing his knuckles with her thumb. "That greatly worries you."

"Now more than ever. I don't…" He just shook his head as he stared at the pile of ruined furniture by the door. Saw bloodied and ruined bodies instead. When she remained quiet, he leaned forward and lowered his voice even more. "I… I need to know more about how your cryo process works."

"Is it that bad, then?"

"It might be. I just don't think I'll be better before Steve leaves."

"And when will that be?"

"I don't know," Bucky said, his voice suddenly cracking. He cleared his throat. "Couple days, maybe." He tried to calm his breathing, but he wasn't doing a very good job.

She gave him a sympathetic look, her thumb moving in soothing circles across his hand. "Shhh," she finally said. "Breathe slowly. In, out."

He nodded. Sniffed and snuffled enough that she pulled a tissue out of the box on the side table and handed it to him. While he blew his nose, she asked, "What has Dr. Lu said?"

Bucky shrugged. "Haven't seen him enough to talk about it much. He… he seems pretty focused on me getting better in the more traditional timeline, I guess. He wants me to meet the security team, thinks it'll ease my mind, but I'm not sure he understands the urgency… or how strong I am even without a metal arm."

"When do you see him next?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"All right. When you are done with him, I want you to call me. I will send a car around to take you to the cryo lab, where I will meet you and walk you through the entire thing."

He hoped she couldn't tell the way fear stabbed him in the gut.

She laid a hand on his cheek, because of course she saw. "Do not fear. It is a far gentler process than any you would have gone through in the past. It will feel no different than going to sleep for a restful nap. Upon awakening, you will feel no cold, only warmth and comfort and safety."

Bucky nodded as he pressed the tissue hard against his eyes.

"I think it will be a good thing if Steve sees the lab. He cares deeply about you. He should go."

"Go where?" Steve asked as he came in from the kitchen.

Dr. Ifede looked to Bucky to answer. Bucky rubbed his hand along his pants, then took a breath. "Gonna tour the cryo lab tomorrow after my appointment with Dr. Lu."

Steve's face went still. After a few blinks, he sat down beside Bucky. He stared at the floor, rubbing his thumb across the opposite palm. A knot pulsed at the corner of his jaw.

"I'm sorry," Bucky said quietly.

"What? No, no... it's not… you're not doing anything wrong. I just… it's a lot to take in, the chance that you might...that I might lose—ah, hell, I'm making a mess of this. I gotta remember this isn't about me but about what you feel is best for yourself." He squeezed the back of Bucky's neck. "Whatever you need, Buck."

Bucky hated how his messed-up life was hurting Steve, but Steve's support lifted a little of the weight off his shoulders. He struggled to find the words to show his gratitude, but in the end he could only manage a soft, "Thanks."

"Well," Dr. Ifede said after a moment of silence, "I think for this evening, it is safe to assume my services are no longer needed, so I will take my leave. I am going to send along something you can take if you have trouble sleeping. I do not know how effective it will be, but it is a stronger formulation than a normal sleep aid."

"Thank you," Bucky murmured. Hopefully the drug would work. Be nice to get a full night's sleep.

"Steven," she continued, "if this happens again, call me immediately."

"Yes, ma'am," he said. They both stood and Steve walked her to the door.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Bucky sagged back onto the couch. He stared at the ceiling, wishing he could tear his skull open and throw his brain against the wall.

The seat cushion sagged as Steve sat down beside him again. "Need to talk?"

For a long time, Bucky didn't answer. He just stared at the ceiling, his mind too tired to form words. Finally, he looked at Steve. "When they… when they remade you into…" He waved his hand up and down, encompassing Steve's entire oversized body. "Did they mess with your mind?"

"No. I was still me, inside."

"I'm glad."

Steve smiled sadly. "There was one time when someone messed with my head. It was scary."

"What happened? Who did that?"

"Wanda, before she became an ally. Long story, but she was used as a weapon a little like you were. She got in the heads of the entire team, messed us up for a while. Really messed Tony up, tipped his fears over the edge, started him on the path to creating Ultron."

"Wanda did all that?"

"Call her actions a catalyst."

"Kind of how Zemo used my existence as a catalyst to the whole fiasco that landed us here."

Steve shrugged.

"But now you trust her?"

"With my life, several times over. People change, overcome their pasts. Overcome what was done to them."

Bucky thought about that for a few minutes, then asked, "What did she do to you? I mean, you didn't create a world-ending robot, I know that much."

Steve laughed a little. "No, that really isn't in my skill set." He sobered. "She stirred up a lot of longings that would never be fulfilled. Made me believe I was too much a man of war to ever enjoy love or marriage or…." He cleared his throat. "Sometimes I think she was probably more right than she realized. I mean, she was just working with what she found in my mind."

"Steve."

Another sad smile. "Who knows. But I'm getting better. I just… have to adjust my expectations. I'm not cut out for the white picket fence and PTA meetings in the suburbs, I know that. But family? I have family. Sam, Clint, even Wanda… and now with you back in my life, the family is more whole than it's ever been."

Bucky offered a wobbly smile. "Yeah, because every family needs a brain-damaged cousin."

"Brain-damaged _brother_. Clint's the brain-damaged cousin."

Bucky laughed, but then he studied Steve's face. "What about a wife? Kids? You'd make a helluva dad."

"I'm working on that. Slowly. Seems like Nat tries to set me up with every female of legal age with a pulse, but I've been a little too busy for dating."

"What about Sharon Carter? Was that the first time you kissed a woman since the war?"

Steve looked affronted. "God, what is it with everyone assuming that? Nat asked me the same thing once, almost verbatim."

"Well? What's the answer?"

"No! Sharon is not the first woman I've kissed since 1944."

"You're doing better than me, then. I guess. If I kissed a woman after the war, I don't rememb—"

… _he buried his hands in red hair, kissed soft lips…_

… _a hushed whisper…"Shh, they'll find us…"_

"Bucky?"

Bucky blinked hard and stared at Steve for so long that Steve leaned forward and tapped Bucky's knee. "Hey, buddy, say something."

"I… I just remembered… red hair…" He shook himself. "Probably remembering Dot." It didn't seem like it, though.

"You had a real thing for her."

Bucky smiled weakly. "Yeah, guess I did. Wouldn't have remembered her otherwise."

But was that who he was really remembering? Guess it didn't really matter.

He struggled to his feet, feeling the weight of the past—its secrets, its sins, its terrifying void—more heavily than the arm had ever felt. "I'm going to go to bed, see if I can sleep."

"I'll check on you when the medicine Dr. Ifede ordered comes. See if you need it."

"As exhausted as I feel right now, I doubt I will, but thanks."

Steve followed him to the bedroom doorway. He leaned against it, watching Bucky pull the blankets back and crawl into bed.

"You wanna hit the light?" Bucky asked when he was settled.

Steve nodded, but instead of flipping the switch, he stared down at his feet. When he looked up, his eyes were troubled. "You sure about touring the cryo lab tomorrow?"

"No. Yes. I… I don't know. I just need to see all my options, I guess."

Steve nodded, his eyes still murky with misery. "Get some sleep," he murmured, and turned out the light.

 _tbc..._


	29. Chapter 29

_**As always, thank you again to all my reviewers and also to my guest reviewers and those of you with messaging turned off. I wish there was a way I could personally thank each one of you.  
**_

Bucky stared out the car window, not really seeing the cityscape slide by (though some sort of weird flying car thing did catch his eye). Thanks to whatever-the-hell drug Dr. Ifede had prescribed for him, he'd had gotten some sleep, but it had been a mixed blessing. The drug wasn't as strong as the stuff he'd had with his surgery and though it had given him almost 10 hours of sleep, more of those hours than he cared to think about had been populated with nightmares. Where normally he'd jerk wide awake after just one bad dream, the drug simply made him sluggishly move from one atrocity to the next with no way to stop. He didn't wake up feeling refreshed at all. George, Gracie and Dumb Dora started doing flips almost as soon as he opened his eyes, pounding around in his stomach as if they were making up for an entire night's lost time. He'd refused breakfast. It wouldn't have stayed down.

And now the bright morning sunshine stabbed his eyes like a never-ending flashbang grenade, even through the car's tinted glass.

He felt hung over. Or he guessed this was what being hung over felt like. Been a long time since he had tied one on, and even then, he didn't remember being the kind of guy who regularly got drunk. Didn't have the money before the Army and after he went in, he was too busy looking after his men, setting the example, being the good sergeant. After Zola got hold of him, drink didn't seem to touch him.

Funny how he remembered all that. He sighed a little.

"Am I driving too fast?"

He glanced at his driver, the same one from the last trip to Dr. Lu's office. This time she'd taken one look at his face, which was probably a lovely grayish green, and took the longer, more sedate route. "Oh, uh… no, it's fine. Just lost in thought, I guess."

She gave him a cool look and then turned her eyes back onto the road without saying anything. Probably thought he was an idiot.

Steve wasn't with him. He'd given Bucky a sad-eyed apology, saying he had a meeting with Aneka to finalize plans for when and how to get the team out of the Raft. Bucky couldn't blame him, but Steve's absence didn't help the pterodactyl situation at all. He clenched his fist. When the hell had he become so dependent on Steve's presence that he was nearly a basket case when he was gone? What happened to the Bucky who'd got by on his own for the last two years?

 _Zemo got hold of you, that's what happened._

Damn it.

He needed a distraction. "So, um… what's your name?" he asked.

"Hasana." Another enigmatic smile. "It means 'she arrives first.'"

Bucky laughed a little despite his inner existential crisis. "That explains so much."

Her right eyebrow fluttered upward, but her eyes gleamed with amusement. "And you. What does your name mean?"

Did he know? Had he ever known? A quick gallop around his messy brain turned up nothing. "No idea."

"You should look it up. Our names can be guideposts when we lose our way."

He wasn't sure there was anything too significant about James Buchanan Barnes. "Maybe I need to find a barn to live in?"

"Or perhaps two barns." She had dimples when she smiled. "Live in luxury."

"The nurses at the hospital called me Bako."

"Yes, I heard that. It is apt, both for the fact that you are a guest in our country and perhaps that you feel you are a guest in your own mind."

"More like I have an unwanted guest in my head."

"Or that. I will leave that for Dr. Lu to sort out. I am just the driver."

"A very insightful one, though."

"Many people talk to me, after their visits to Dr. Lu. One learns much, if one is willing to simply listen."

"Well," Bucky drawled, "if you happen to overhear how to remove the shit an evil organization put in my head, feel free to speak up."

"I am afraid I cannot help you with that."

Not that he'd expected her to come up with an answer, but he felt a whisper of disappointment nonetheless. At this point he was pretty much grasping at any straw, no matter how frail. He fell quiet, trying to keep his leg from jiggling as he watched towering buildings slide past. Another of the small flying vehicles zoomed past them, about a hundred feet overhead. He watched it until it disappeared.

 _Connie dragged him by the hand as she ran toward the big stage at the Stark Expo. Bucky smiled as he hurried to keep up with her, his new military shoes rapping a sharp tattoo on the pavement. They were stiff and giving him a blister on his left heel, but damned if he'd limp and let anyone know it. Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes looked sharp as a tack in his uniform and he was damn proud of it, even if the thing itched and the shoes blistered his feet._

 _He forgot all about his sore feet when Howard Stark himself came out, flirting with the dancing girls and smirking at the crowd. "What if I told you that in just a few short years, your automobile won't even have to touch the ground at all?" he said and then the girls pulled away the tires to reveal weird-looking motors mounted on each axle. Stark spouted a lot of fifty-cent words about the technology and turned a knob and threw a switch and the motors started humming and glowing and damn it if that car didn't raise itself up in the air. It hovered for a few seconds, just long enough for Bucky to mutter, "Holy cow," before sparks and smoke suddenly erupted from one of the wheel wells, and the thing crashed back to earth…_

Bucky wondered if those car things flying overhead ran on the same technology. Probably not. That had been over 70 years ago, and Wakanda was pretty insular. Then again, Howard had somehow obtained enough vibranium for Steve's shield, so who knows. Maybe there had been some connection between Stark and Wakandan scientists and inventors back then. Exchange of technology for raw materials kind of a deal. Be interesting to know the answer, but Bucky had no idea how to find out. Not like he could just walk up to T'Challa and say, "Look, I'm sorry I murdered Howard Stark and all, but before I did that, was he a friend of Wakanda's?" Yeah, better not. No need to purposefully remind the Wakandans that they were harboring a murderer.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Was there anything in the world that wasn't tainted by the Soldier's actions? Damn Zola. Damn HYDRA. Damn Pierce and Rumlow and Zemo and every unnamed face that had loomed over his, inflicting pain and torture and making him do things that went against everything he had once stood for and wanted to stand for again. Damn them all to the lowest abyss in hell.

"Bako?" Hasana's soft voice cut through the noise in his head and he realized he was bent low over his knees. He quickly straightened.

"Sorry," he muttered. He blinked hard.

"Are you ill?"

"No." He didn't feel up to explaining.

She said nothing more, but he saw her occasional sharp glances. He tried to stuff away his anger and everything else that was bothering him, but he felt scraped raw inside.

He stared out the window. The streets held quite a bit more traffic compared with his last trip, and they had to stop at several lights. As they waited for the third red light in a row to change, he glanced at her again. She was so calm, but how could she be, with a monster sitting beside her? "Aren't you nervous, being in the car with me?" he blurted. "Knowing…" He waved his hand toward his head.

"No."

"Why the hell not?"

The light changed and she drove two blocks before answering. "I trust my king. He does not fear you, or you would not be here."

"He doesn't fear me because he can and did kick my ass all over Bucharest."

"Who is to say that I cannot kick your ass all over Wakanda?"

"Can you?"

Her eyes slid sideways toward him, briefly. The dimple made a reappearance. "Is that a challenge?"

"No," Bucky said hurriedly. "No, it is _not._ "

She chuckled.

"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound rude," Bucky said. "I just… I don't trust myself and it makes me nervous when everyone else apparently does."

"That is completely understandable. But tell me, do I need to fear you, right now?"

"I don't think so."

She nodded, then silence fell again, but it was a comfortable silence. Or as comfortable as Bucky could get without Steve at the ready to hold him back, in case…

He shook himself. Better not to think about it. They were outside the private entrance to the medical building now, anyway, so no time for any more worrying. He unhooked his seatbelt and opened his door, but he stopped before climbing out. "Will you be the one picking me up when I'm done?"

"Possibly. It will depend on what time it is. I have several patients to transport this morning."

"Oh." He felt oddly disappointed. "Thanks, then. I, uh, hope I see you later." He hid a wince. What was he thinking, saying something like that? But he did want to see her again, there was no getting around it.

But she flashed him another enigmatic smile. "As do I, Bako."

Bemused, he climbed out and shut the door. She sped off, just like before, and just like before, he stared after the car, wondering what exactly he was feeling about her and what, if anything, he could do about it. In another life, he'd be flirting and asking her to dinner and a dance. But in another life, he wouldn't be in Wakanda in 2017 with a messed up head and a horrible history of violence. There wasn't a woman on the planet who deserved someone like him foisting himself on her.

He ducked his head and hurried into the building, trying to ignore the hollowed-out ache in his chest.

The short elevator ride helped him clear his head a little, and soon he was sitting in Dr. Lu's office, being greeted like visiting royalty as the little doctor handed him a cup of coffee before fussing with cutting a huge slice from a chocolate layer cake. "I told you, if you recall, that my wife makes an excellent chocolate cake. Here is my chance to prove my boasts are valid."

Maybe it was Dr. Lu's uncomplicated smile and enthusiastic welcome. Maybe it was just that Bucky was here in the office, unable to stop whatever course his life would take for the next several hours. Whatever the reason, Team Pterodactyl was finally sleeping. As he breathed in the aroma of chocolate, his mouth started to water. "It sure smells good," he said as he accepted the plate.

"The aroma is but a shadow compared to the flavor. Go on, eat!"

Bucky picked up the fork and sliced through the layers. Just to prolong the doctor's agony, and because Bucky Barnes was a little shit, he closed his eyes and held the fork under his nose.

"Oh, now, come! It is not fine wine. It is a chocolate cake. You have already smelled it, so now eat!"

Bucky grinned and shoveled it into his mouth. It was good. Very good. Probably the best cake he'd ever eaten, or at least that he remembered eating. He nodded his approval and shoved another bite in while Dr. Lu clapped his hands with delight.

"I told you, did I not!" he crowed as he pulled his chair from behind his desk so he could sit a few feet in front of Bucky.

"It's really good. Different than the chocolate cake I remember from back home."

"It has Amarula in it, which is a liqueur made from the fruit of the Marriage Tree." He winked. "The tree is said to help with the vigor and fertility of those who are married beneath its branches."

Bucky's eyebrows shot up. He opened his mouth but realized he had absolutely no words, so he just took another bite of cake.

Dr. Lu laughed. "As a man of science, I cannot subscribe to such superstitions, but on the other hand, love is largely a factor of the mind and emotions and both of those have an effect on the body. If it helps a couple to hold to such a belief, who am I to deny them that boost?"

"Were you and your wife married under one?"

The doctor smiled broadly. "Of course we were."

Bucky laughed. He liked this little man more and more. He finished the last bite of his cake and set the plate on the end table. He wasn't sure what to expect now, but Dr. Lu fortunately didn't leave him to sit and wonder.

"Did you sleep well last night, Bucky?"

He shrugged. "Okay, I guess. Dr. Ifede gave me some sleeping pills. Helped, but I had some nightmares. Usual stuff."

"And what is the 'usual stuff'?"

"Dreamed about killing people. About nearly killing Steve. About falling from the train back in 1944."

"Do you remember that?"

"Unfortunately. I'd much rather remember my mother's face, but no. I just remember every goddamn moment of that fall." He winced. "Sorry about the language."

"Do not apologize. You may say anything you wish here. There are no rules."

Bucky nodded.

"How is your hand?"

Bucky held it up and opened and closed his fist several times in rapid succession. The scrapes on the knuckles were already nearly invisible, just patches of new pink skin with a few scabs. He shrugged. "It's okay."

"Ah, that is amazing, your enhanced healing ability—it is especially noticeable on those superficial wounds." He tilted his head to the side. "Tell me, how do you feel about healing so quickly?"

"I guess I like it. I mean, it beats having a swollen hand for days."

"It does not bother you, being different from other people in that way?"

Bucky shook his head. "I have plenty of things that bother me. Super healing isn't one of them. Super strength isn't, either." _Until the Soldier wakes up and uses it..._

"So you are able to look at these things about yourself and see them apart from _how_ you arrived at possessing them?"

Bucky frowned as he looked at the freshly healed parts of his hand. "Yeah," he said slowly. "I guess I do. Mostly."

"All right, then. That is good. That is very important, to be able to accept yourself as you are at present. To see this day as a sort of first day of your life. Does that make sense to you?"

"Yeah. But…"

"Yes?"

Bucky took a shaking breath. "I might be okay today, but all those yesterdays filled with… doing HYDRA's…" Shame swelled up, hot and choking. The words knotted up in his throat.

Dr. Lu waited a moment, then asked gently, "You cannot erase your past, of course, but you can chart your present and future. That is what you must remember. Each time you choose to do good, you push the past and its horrors back a little farther."

"That all sounds fine, until someone who knows the trigger words comes along and uses them on me."

"That is a fair point." He leaned forward. "And to that end of ridding you of the trigger response to those words, I must now ask a difficult question."

Bucky frowned but said nothing.

"What do you think will happen if you write down the trigger words for me?"

Bucky fought back a hot wave of panic followed by a cold sweat. "Not a good idea."

"All right. Not all the words, then, but perhaps only one of the words. I ask this only because it is important for me to know the words in order to help you overcome their toxicity, to disconnect the conditioned response associated with the words so they no longer have power over you."

Bucky sat back. Rubbed his sweating hand up and down his leg. "I… I guess I could do that. I, uh, I wrote them down once, in a notebook. Took a long time, almost two weeks, to write the full list and I had to write it out of order, but I did it."

"And why did you write them down?"

"Trying to do what you just said, I guess. Figure out how to undo the effect they have on me."

"Did it help?"

He shrugged. "A little. After I wrote them all down, I destroyed the list and then wrote down a list of positive things to focus on instead whenever the trigger words popped up, either in conversation or a nightmare. I wrote down memories of things I used to like and new things that I discovered after escaping. I sometimes could read that list of good things and it would help me, I dunno, find myself again, or at least keep me from losing myself completely."

Dr. Lu's eyes widened. "You are indeed a strong man, Bucky. Stronger, I think, than anyone has given you credit for being. Not many would think to do that, let alone find the courage to try."

He didn't know how to respond to that. He never felt strong or courageous. Just damaged and desperate, like trying to fix his broken brain with string and duct tape. "Didn't seem smart or brave," he finally muttered.

"On your own, you started to do the very thing that professionals like myself take years of study to learn. That is no small accomplishment."

Bucky shrugged again.

"Perhaps, given your success in the past, we can try just one word?"

Dr. Lu handed him a pencil and a pad of paper.

He took them and held the pen gingerly, as if it were a snake that might bite at any moment. He cleared his throat. "In Russian or English?"

"Can you do both? I fear am not fluent in Russian."

Bucky took a deep breath, then wrote quickly, as if speed would lessen the reaction he knew was coming, "желание," followed by "zhelaniye" and "longing." He stared at the words. His heart started to race.

"How do you feel?"

He wasn't sure he could put it into words, but he tried. "Full of dread, mostly. Cold. Helpless. Angry. I can feel the memories of… of the bad stuff that happened tryin' to take over… reminding me that disobedience means, um... a lotta pain." He cleared his throat and ran his hand over his hair and tugged on it. _Breathe, Bucky. Focus._ _That shit's in the past. No one here will hurt you._ "I, uh, yeah… startin' to feel like a knife is stabbing my temples."

"Is that how it always felt, when your handlers started to recite the litany?"

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. Clenched his jaw to hold back the scream growing in his chest.

The pain in his head was getting worse. He could swear he heard Zola's voice. "No," he whimpered.

He wordlessly held out the pad of paper and felt Dr. Lu take it.

"Bucky, did your handlers ever touch you in any way when they recited the words?"

He shook his head. "Not once they..." He could barely speak now. "Once they had the programming... in my head."

"Remember, Bucky, I am not your handler. I am Dr. Lu and I am here to help you. Now, I am going to touch your leg, by your knee."

Bucky felt the warmth of the doctor's hand his leg. He shuddered but didn't flinch.

"That is good, Bucky. You are doing well. Now, listen to me. You are in my office, in Wakanda. There is no punishment coming." His calm, compassionate voice cut through the clamor in Bucky's brain, finally drowning out Zola. "Take some deep breaths, just as we did in your room yesterday. Breathe in through your nose, slowly. Hold… hold… hold… relax your jaw and your neck. All right. That is very good. Now breathe out, slowly, more slowly, yes, just so… five… six… seven. No one is saying the next word. Breathe in. The next word is not coming. There is no one here but the two of us. Relax. Know that you are James Buchanan Barnes. Now breathe out. Be at peace. You are in Wakanda, in my office. No harm will come to you. All is well."

Bucky felt tears squeeze past his lashes. His chest heaved once.

"Breathe, my son. Breathe." Dr. Lu slowly continued, coaching him through the entire count several times more before Bucky's breathing finally returned somewhat to normal.

"Now, can you please open your eyes and see what I am about to do?"

He was afraid he'd need a crowbar, but he slowly opened his eyes. He swiped away the tears on his cheeks as he stared warily at Dr. Lu.

 _What if he's lying… what if he somehow found the red notebook and is about to recite all the words…_

He couldn't shake the thought. His hand clenched into a fist.

Dr. Lu saw it. "You are concerned I am not who I say I am."

A curt nod. He lowered his chin, still staring unblinkingly at the doctor. He would _not_ let anyone say the next words… would _not_ let the Soldier loose to wreak havoc…

"Perhaps this will help you trust me." He tore the paper with the word on it from the pad and folded it in half, then reached back for a small metal bucket on his desk. He put the bucket on the floor between them. Holding the paper by a corner, he took a very expensive-looking lighter and set the paper on fire, dropping it into the bucket at their feet.

Bucky felt a little of the tension drain out of him as he watched the flames consume the word. He ran his hand over his hair again. Tugged on it.

"When we have traumatic experiences," Dr. Lu said, "they make impressions in the mind. Very strong echoes reverberate through our consciousness, often triggering a cascade of thought and emotion that can overwhelm every other thought process, even causing a loss of consciousness itself. There are measurable chemical changes in the brain during such episodes. What HYDRA did was create that sort of overwhelming cascade through introducing trauma and connecting it to that word, then doing it again and again for the rest of the words. I won't go into detail of how, because that would be counterproductive for you at this stage. You have suppressed a lot of the trauma, I suspect—"

Bucky nodded. He couldn't remember much of the torture he went through in those early years, though just the idea of it sent dread coursing through him all over again. He clenched his jaw.

"—and I do not think it would do you any good to remember those details right now. That is something to work on later. If the memories of those times return unbidden, then we will deal with them then. But for now, looking forward—always looking forward—I will teach you ways to counter the words so they no longer have any hold over you. The techniques and tools you learn will also work on trigger words that you may not be aware of, as well."

Bucky cleared his throat. "That sounds good."

"It will not happen overnight and will involve much more than simply writing a word on a piece of paper and burning it, but I think you will be surprised at how quickly the process will produce results. I would suspect, in fact, that even now you are capable of hearing the word we just burned without suffering as strong a reaction to it that you have previously."

"Not sure it's a good idea to try that yet."

"No, I do not think it is, either. For one thing, you are still very tense, and I suspect that is partly because you are alone with me, still not one hundred percent certain you can trust me. That is understandable. And certainly being without your friend Steven here to assist if you were to lose yourself to the Soldier does not exactly comfort you."

Bucky nodded.

"Understandable. It is my hope that time will help me earn your trust, but perhaps now is a good time to meet the security team who will be acting as Steven's stand-in. Would you like that?"

"Yes, sir." Team Pterodactyl stirred uneasily.

A compassionate smile as Dr. Lu reached out and patted Bucky's knee again. "All will be well, you will see." He stood up. "Now, come, let us meet the team."

 _tbc…_

Some notes:

The marula tree is a real thing. Amarula liqueur is made from its fruit, and in South Africa among the Zulu, there is a legend about how marrying beneath its branches will extend strength and virility to a couple's union. Since this site doesn't allow links, just google it if you want to read more. Interesting tree.

Chapter 1 of _Mr. Fix_ It shows Bucky using his list of favorite things to help center himself, if you'd like to see that.

Sorry for the slooooow updates. This section is so vital to get as right as I can make it that I don't want to rush a lame chapter and end up gutting the entire story. What was it that Orson Welles once said about not selling any wine before its time? I am far from a professional and am doing a lot of research into PTSD and all that and trying to blend realism with comic book science... and that takes time to get (hopefully) right. Or at least believable. Thank you for your patience!


	30. Chapter 30

_Thank you as always to all my reviewers._

-o0o-

Bucky stood up as the security team came in. There were only two men, but they immediately made the sizeable office feel like a broom closet. They were both taller than Bucky and broader across the shoulders. The taller of the two topped Bucky by a full head, and his biceps looked ready to split the seams on his shirt. The other man may have lacked some height, but Bucky still had to look up to see his face.

"Bucky, I would like you to meet Ndembo and Ndale," Dr. Lu said. "They are brothers and have been in charge of security for this facility for many years."

Bucky held his hand out to Ndembo and felt pretty good as he saw it vanish into the man's giant mitt. Maybe this guy was up to the challenge. But Ndembo's grip was surprisingly gentle, as was the smile on his face. "I am very pleased to meet you, Sergeant Barnes."

Oh great. A gentle giant. Not what he needed. He wanted cold eyes that promised death if he tried to so much as tug on Dr. Lu's sleeve. He started squeezing the man's hand tighter, just to see how he'd react. The glint he needed to see finally started up in the man's eyes as he squeezed back, but his grip still wasn't strong enough. "I need to know strong you really are," Bucky growled as he bore down.

The man, to give him credit, didn't stop smiling. He just started squeezing Bucky's hand hard enough to make the bones creak a little. It hurt, but it was far from anything that would actually stop him. Bucky shook his head. "Harder."

The smile vanished as the man evidently gave it all he had, which… didn't convince Bucky at all, but he nodded and let go.

Ndale stepped forward with his hand outstretched. "I am honored."

Honored? Damn it, he needed icy glares and for the two men to form a phalanx around Dr. Lu to protect him. These two seemed more like giant Labrador retrievers.

Dr. Lu must have sensed his exasperation. "They may not be your equal in brute strength, Bucky, but these men are trained in Wakandan martial arts. They are also proficient in many weapons. You need not fear that they will be unable to contain the Soldier, should the need arise."

Bucky chewed his lip. "Is there… I mean, no insult intended, but is there a way we could, I don't know, maybe do some sparring?"

Ndembo smiled like he'd just been given a box of puppies for Christmas. "That would be marvelous." Ndale didn't say anything, but his eyes were lit up like he was about to belly up to the king's banquet.

Well, at least they weren't afraid of him.

Dr. Lu pursed his lips. "I have no objection to a good sparring match, but it will be up to Dr. Ifede. If she feels you are healed sufficiently for such vigorous activity, I see no problem, other than if the sparring causes you to lose yourself in a way that you are not able to overcome."

"But isn't that sort of the whole point? To make sure someone other than Steve can stop him if I can't?"

Dr. Lu looked troubled, but he nodded. "Yes, and perhaps my worries are groundless. You did come back to yourself after your nightmare, with Steven's help, and you did show control when exposed to the first trigger word. I just wish there were more time for you to practice control techniques before being tossed into the deep end, if I may use an American saying."

"Well, fact is that we don't. I'm standing on the edge about to dive in, because Steve's leaving and that can't be changed. This may be the only thing that keeps me from choosing cryo." He paused, then went on. "And honestly, if they can contain me, it'd take the pressure off Steve even if he is here. I don't want to force Steve into that position again, where he has to go to battle against me to stop me. He'll never say it, but I know the toll it takes on him every time he's had to do it. I, uh—"

 _"_ _I want you to stop me. I can't keep on like this. Can't live with the thought that someone could come along and… and say words that make me lose myself. Turn me back into a monster. Can't wake up and realize I killed an innocent person and don't even fucking remember doing it. I won't live that way again."_

" _I might not be strong enough to carry it out, but I promise, if all else fails... all else... I'll try to respect your wish."_

"What are you thinking about, Bucky?" Dr. Lu asked.

He cleared his throat. "I asked Steve, before we got off the plane here, if the Soldier took over and couldn't be stopped, if he would promise to put me down. Permanently. He was devastated at the thought, but he promised me he'd do it if all else failed, if he could find the strength to. I knew he wasn't talking about physical strength. I was asking him to kill his own brother, basically, and I might as well have ripped his heart out of his chest. I hated it. Hated putting him in that position. So this sparring match, and cryo if sparring doesn't go well, is the 'all else' at this point. I hope it will keep me from ever asking Steve to do that."

Dr. Lu nodded, finally acquiescing.

Bucky looked at the two men, who had stood listening with wide eyes. "Look, both of you, I don't want to hurt you guys. I don't want to put you in that untenable position any more than I want to put Steve in it, but… yeah. I can't trust my own mind and there's no telling what may happen, so you need to be ready for any possibility."

They both nodded, their expressions a study in solemn determination. That was good. Really good. Maybe this whole crazy mess would work out.

Bucky took a deep breath and gave both of them a small smile. "Okay. First off, please believe me, I don't say this to sound arrogant, I promise, but if the Soldier breaks loose and I can't rein him back in, you'll have to be as strong as Captain America, because I've had a very similar serum given to me. Except for T'Challa, he's the only one that's ever bested me when the Soldier is fighting. You just need to understand that the metal arm wasn't the only source of my strength."

"I think, working together, we will manage that feat without a problem," Ndembo said. Ndale said nothing, but he nodded once.

God, these two still seemed too eager. Still saw this as a game. He chewed his lip. If Bucky still had his metal arm, he was very worried that he could easily defeat them both. Without it? It did level the playing field somewhat. Maybe they stood a chance. He turned to Dr. Lu. "Do you think they can do it?"

"I do. I have confidence in these men," Dr. Lu said. "Short of the Black Panther and the Dora Milaje, these two are the strongest in all of Wakanda. It may ease your mind to know that they are also the Black Panther's sparring partners."

"We often need to hold back so we do not injure the Black Panther," Ndale interjected.

Ndemo glared at his brother. "We certainly do no such thing! No one is as strong as the Black Panther. _He_ is the one who must hold back so as not to harm _us_." He turned to Bucky. "My apologies. My younger brother likes to exaggerate. We will, however, be equal to the task, I assure you."

It would have to do, Bucky supposed. "Yeah, okay. All right. As soon as Dr. Ifede signs off on it, we'll fight like it's the real thing. I can pull the Soldier forward, if I need to. If that makes sense. If I'm running out of steam or injured, I mean. I can draw on his… skills."

"Wait…you can do that and not lose yourself?" Dr. Lu asked, sounding surprised.

Bucky shrugged a little sheepishly. "Guess I shoulda mentioned that before going so far down the 'I can't hold the Soldier back' road. But, um, yeah? It's hard to explain. I didn't lose myself in Siberia against Tony Stark… Iron-Man. In that instance, I was just trying to disable his suit and having a damn hard time of it. So I drew on some of the strength and skill that the Winter Soldier possesses. It's hard to explain, but it's not in Bucky Barnes to be… savage, I guess would be the word. I wasn't trying to kill Tony and I don't think Steve was, either. We were just trying to disable his suit and stop him. I know, though, that the Soldier would have just killed him and been done with it. I was trying to use the metal arm to rip out the suit's arc reactor. The Soldier would have used the metal arm to rip off his helmet and then his head." He stared hard at the two brothers. "And that's what you need to understand. If the Soldier takes over, Bucky Barnes will have no say. The Soldier has no conscience, no boundaries when it comes to life or death. He fights to complete the mission, full stop. Life and death aren't part of the equation."

To their credit, neither Ndembo nor Ndale so much as flinched at Bucky's harsh words. Good. That was good.

He continued, "The Soldier takes no prisoners. I'll ask Steve to be present, in case the Soldier does take over and you can't stop him. I know Steve can. I just want to be sure that all of us walk out of that room alive."

Ndembo bowed his head. "That is appreciated."

Dr. Lu nodded, then dismissed the two guards, with instructions that they would be called upon at some point in the next day, pending Dr. Ifede's approval. Bucky tried to ignore the flutter in his belly.

After the door closed behind the two men, Dr. Lu waved him to a chair. After they were both seated, he gave Bucky a long, steady look. "How are you feeling?"

"Like they're not going to be anywhere near strong or ruthless enough to put me down, despite what they said."

"Tell me—and this may sound like a cruel question, but it is a matter of me trying to understand your physical capacity. Can you only be, as you put it, 'put down' by a blow to the head?"

"Depends on the situation, I guess. Yesterday when the nightmare triggered me—I guess it triggered me, I'm still not entirely sure what happened, other than I guess flashbacks will wake up the Soldier to some extent. Anyway, Steve only had to hold me down until I woke up. But back in DC, when I was fully programmed as the Winter Soldier, with orders to stop anything from preventing the helicarrier launch, Steve put a choke-hold on me. I lost consciousness, but when I woke up, I was still as much on mission as ever. Still fought him. Nearly killed him until he said something that freed up Bucky Barnes enough to overcome the programming."

"What were those words?"

"'I'm with you to the end of the line.' It's something I told him after his mom passed away back before the War. He was a real mess after the funeral, trying to act like he could get along all by himself. I told him he didn't have to, that I'd be with him to the end of the line."

"And what was the circumstance that caused him to say those words back to you in the present?"

"It was on the helicarrier, in D.C. He'd completed his mission of taking them down, and he was trying to break through to me. The carrier we were on was falling slowly from the sky, but it didn't matter. All I could think of was that I had to kill this man. That was my mission. I'd already beaten him pretty badly. I'd shot him and stabbed him. But all the while he kept saying my name, telling me we were friends. Even pulled a damn beam off me when I was trapped. None of what he was saying was making a dent, although I do remember every time he said my name, I'd get a sharp pain in my head, like somebody was driving a railroad spike through my brain. I was angry and confused and in a shit ton of pain and refused to listen. He finally just dropped his shield into the river and said he wasn't gonna fight me, that I was his friend. I, uh…" He swallowed hard and blinked a few times. "I rushed him and just started hitting his face, screaming with each punch that he was my mission. I… my head hurt so much, I just wanted to complete the mission and be done with all of it, even if it meant dying on the crashing helicarrier." He stopped.

"Continue when you're ready," Dr. Lu said softly.

"I pulled back the metal arm for the killing blow, and he didn't flinch, didn't do anything. He just looked at me with this sad, resigned expression. I hesitated, because his face was…" His throat closed up. He coughed. "I suddenly had a fleeting memory of his face, much younger and thinner, bloodied from somebody beating him up. I felt this sudden compulsion to protect him instead of kill him. It confused me, made me hesitate." He blinked back tears and covered his mouth with his hand. Dr. Lu stayed quiet, giving him time to collect himself. When Bucky continued, his voice was rough. "Yeah, I hesitated, and he just says, 'Then finish it, 'cuz I'm with you to the end of the line.'" Tears welled and spilled over and for a long time, all he could do was take shuddering breaths. "He was willing to die for me," he choked. "After everything I…" He couldn't finish.

Dr. Lu pressed a tissue into his hand, but said nothing.

Bucky spent far too long trying to control himself, but he finally continued. "It all just… rushed back into my head. Not everything, of course, but enough. My childhood. Steve. Our friendship. The War. Him rescuing me from Zola the first time. I was horrified at how close I'd come to killing him, but before I could do anything, the helicarrier started to break up. He fell. I watched him, still kind of lost in my head and confused from all the pain and noise in my brain, but over all the static was this voice… _my own_ voice, stronger than it'd been in 70 years… yelling at me to save him. I jumped after him and pulled him from the river."

"Were you fully back to yourself at that point?"

"No. Not really. My brain was… full of static. Noise. Confusion. I was Bucky, but I was still the Soldier. I was fighting the Soldier off the entire time I pulled Steve out of the river. When I got him to the bank, I made sure he was breathing, then I knew I had to get the hell out of there in case the Soldier won out and tried to finish the mission. I started running and didn't stop until Steve found me in Bucharest."

"When you saw him then, in Bucharest, did you remember him fully? Meaning, did you remain yourself and not fall back into the Winter Soldier persona?"

"Yeah. I was fine. I still didn't remember a lot of things about my past, but I was myself again. Steve was under no threat, though I think he was plenty nervous. Can't exactly blame him."

"So. If that line worked to break the thought pattern you were trapped in once, would it work again?"

"I don't know. There's never been another time where the fight reached the point where Steve was that close to dying. In Berlin, it was close, I guess, but there wasn't time for him to say it before the helicopter crashed into the river."

"So what brought you back to yourself then? Tell me about that."

"After Zemo triggered me, I fought a lot of people and then was trying to get away in a helicopter. I guess he had given me instructions to do so, but I can't really remember. Anyway, Steve grabbed the helicopter landing skid with one hand and a beam on the landing pad with the other and held the chopper down."

Dr. Lu's eyebrows shot up. "He held back… an entire helicopter?"

"Yep. I guess I wasn't too happy about it, because I turned the helicopter on him and crashed it into the helipad. He ducked it somehow. There was some more struggling and then the helicopter, with both of us in it, plunged into the river. I think I must have hit my head pretty hard on impact. Things went black, anyway. I woke up, not sure how much later, with my metal arm pinned in some kinda industrial press and Sam Wilson giving me a real hard stare before going to get Steve."

"What was your state of mind upon regaining consciousness?"

"Confused. Exhausted. But I knew who I was again. I was able to think clearly, despite not remembering exactly what had happened."

"And yet you remember now?"

"Well, mostly because Steve told me the details. Some of the images are there, like trying to remember a dream. Sharpest one was him holding onto the helicopter and then the other was me punching through the chopper canopy to grab him by the throat right before the chopper fell." He sighed and stared down at his feet. "Don't think I'll ever forget any of the times I tried to kill my best friend."

"The times the Winter Soldier nearly killed your friend," Dr. Lu corrected gently. "Our names and how we label ourselves are so important. You are doing better at it, but you still must work to train yourself to always look upon those acts as something done by the Winter Soldier, not by James Buchanan Barnes. Recognizing and accepting the difference is one of the most important keys to you regaining—and retaining—your true self. Using his name and not your own when speaking of his actions is very important. I cannot emphasize it enough."

Bucky didn't answer.

"Tell me what are you feeling right now."

"Just… wondering how anyone will ever trust me when even I can't trust me."

"Trust will come, in time. You will heal."

"But how long will that take?" Bucky asked.

A long moment passed before Dr. Lu finally said, "I do not know."

Bucky nodded. He didn't expect a different answer because there was no different answer. "I think I'd like to see the cryo facility now."

Dr. Lu smiled sadly and nodded. "Until tomorrow, then."

 _tbc..._

 _Author Notes:_

 _Ndembo—Malawi name meaning "elephant"_

 _Ndale—Malawi name meaning "trickster"_


	31. Chapter 31

_As so often happens when the next Marvel film is looming and I'm still plugging away at a gapfiller like this, Marvel canon starts revealing itself and my story by turns accidentally hits the target and also diverges completely. In this case, when a few months ago I heard some rumors and discussion about Shuri's possible role in treating Bucky, I adapted those into my own headcanon. The Infinity War Prelude comic that came out January 24 has confirmed some of that as canon, though not all of it. Because I've tweaked a few things to match, this chapter has Infinity War Prelude comic spoiler_ _s plus a few possible Infinity War movie spoilers (though we all know the movies don't necessarily follow the prelude comics exactly)_ _. I think enough of it_ _remains my own headcanon that from here on out, I'll just call this canon-friendly AU._

 _Thanks again for all the reviews and many thanks to those of you who have stuck around to this point! The end is getting closer to being in sight. *wibbles*_

-o0o-

Bucky sat in the waiting area of the cryo lab on a leather chair that creaked and squeaked with every fidget. He schooled himself into stillness, staring at his feet while trying to convince the pterodactyls to stop flying around. The drive to the lab had been quiet. The driver hadn't been Hasana, but a taciturn man of about fifty who had picked him up and fifteen minutes later dropped him off in front of yet another multi-story, glass-and-steel building, all without uttering one word. Bucky couldn't lie to himself: he'd been disappointed. Not that he was ready for romance—what a ludicrous thought—but he enjoyed Hasana's wit and confidence. It reminded him of… someone, though he couldn't get his scrambled brain to come up with who.

He was still staring at the polished white marble floor between his feet, trying unsuccessfully to find the missing memory, when the elevator doors slid open and Steve stepped out. He wore his normal worried frown, but he broke into a relieved smile when he saw Bucky.

Bucky pointed at the chair across from him. "Sit, you idiot. You look like you expected to find me already frozen."

Steve flopped down in the chair. "Well, I admit the possibility crossed my mind."

"Seriously? You think I would do that without telling you?"

Steve had the grace to look sheepish. "No, I guess not."

"Damn straight. How'd it go with Aneka?"

"Good. We went over the Raft plans, sorted out a lot of details. Ayo met with us and gave her input as well. She's a formidable general."

"She scares me."

Steve grinned. "Nah, she's not that fierce all the time. Got a good sense of humor. You'll like her, once you get to know her."

"I'll take your word for it. So, did that all that planning include nailing down when you're leaving?"

"Yeah." He wouldn't meet Bucky's eyes. "Day after tomorrow the hurricane will have cleared the region. We'll leave that morning, hopefully be back by nightfall if all goes well."

Team Pterodactyl slammed into the bottom of Bucky's stomach. He tried to keep the fear out of his voice. "All right, then. That's good. Get them out of there as soon as possible."

Steve gave him a sharp look, but he merely asked, "How did it go with Dr. Lu this morning? Did you meet the security team?"

"Yeah. Ndembo and Ndale. Nice guys. Maybe too nice."

"How so?"

Bucky shrugged. "They just… don't seem like they have the killer instinct they'll need."

"Bucky, you won't need to be killed. Just contained. And I doubt you'll even need that."

"We're going to spar tomorrow, if Dr. Ifede says I'm cleared to. Might do it anyway. What's the worst that could happen?"

"Another collapsed lung. More broken ribs. Concussion. I can go on."

"That was a rhetorical question. Anyway, yeah, I was thinking…" The pterodactyls went supersonic. "What if... what if Dr. Lu actually triggered—"

"No."

"It'd be the best way to really know if—"

"No. Bad idea. Are you forgetting the whole drop-you-in-a-helicopter-into-the-river thing I had to do last time?"

"There's a lot of rivers around. We can spar by one of them."

"Damn it, Bucky. No. No one's going to trigger you."

"I'm going to write the words down, give them to Dr. Lu to have on hand in case I decide I really can't test Ndembo and Ndale any other way."

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Not really. Oh, and I'll want you on hand, of course."

"Damn right I'll be there. I'll be the one with my hand over Dr. Lu's mouth so he can't trigger you."

Bucky snorted. "Fine. I'm still not entirely sure telling anyone the words is a good idea, anyway."

"Then let me clear this up for you once and for all: it's not."

"Everyone here seems supportive of T'Challa, but surely he has some political enemies. All of Wakanda can't possibly be in lock step; no nation is. I wouldn't want that list of words falling into a rival's hands, someone who might order me to assassinate him."

"So don't write the words down. Don't tell them to anyone, not even Dr. Lu."

"He said he'll need to know them so he can walk me through each one, to desensitize me. But not all at once and I'm assuming we'll clear each word before I give him the next one. Might even be that clearing the first or second one renders the rest ineffective, kinda like taking out a couple of dominos so the rest can't fall."

"We can hope."

The elevator pinged softly and Dr. Ifede stepped out. Today's scarf was orange, blue and green with ovals and swirls that looked like bird feathers. She smiled at both of them and shook Steve's hand before giving Bucky her usual warm embrace. "How are you feeling today, Bucky? Are you nervous about touring the facility?"

"A little, yeah."

"If at any point you wish to leave, please do so. We will not consider it rude."

"You mean if I run screaming from the place, you'll understand?"

She smiled. "I do not think you will run away screaming. You will find it uncomfortable at times to look at everything, I'm sure, but I am also sure that it is nothing like what you experienced with your captors."

Bucky rubbed a sweating palm on his pant leg. "Let the tour begin then, I guess."

She led them through an unmarked frosted-glass door opposite the elevator. Bucky wasn't sure what to expect—another waiting area, perhaps—but the doors led into a hallway lined with unmarked metal doors. Each had an electronic security lock that required a scan of a person's hand to unlock. Some also had an optical scanner. Dr. Ifede stopped before the one at the very end of the hall. Its panel required both hand and eye scans, though she didn't immediately do either. "This is where we will come, if you choose to do this. I will come to your apartment and accompany you the entire way. Are you ready?"

"Yes, ma'am," Bucky said.

She looked at Steve. He looked like he might either throw up or burst into tears, but he nodded.

Bucky patted him on the back. "It'll be all right, pal," he said softly.

He didn't look convinced.

Dr. Ifede pressed her hand against a glass panel. It briefly glowed red, then yellow. She put her eye to the optical scanner and seconds later the entire panel turned green. The door unlocked with a muffled click. She pulled it open easily, even though it was nearly 15 centimeters thick, and ushered them in ahead of her.

Bucky dragged his thoughts away from darker images of armored doors in more sinister places and stepped forward. Static buzzed around the edges of his mind, but he forced himself to ignore it as he looked at everything in the room. There were lots of monitors. An examination table with an IV pole beside it. Several technicians roaming around or sitting at desks, doing whatever cryo techs do. There were large glass windows and walls with gray girder-like beams, all slanted at sharp angles. The air was cool and dry and odorless. It was all very futuristic and clean and nothing like the Siberian bunker.

There was…

He looked down at the floor. Took a breath. Took another breath.

 _Breathe._

 _Focus._

 _C'mon, Barnes, you can do this. It's not the same. It's not the same._

There was a cryo chamber.

Bucky forced himself to walk over to it.

It was basically a metal tube with a domed glass cover, much smaller than the monstrosities in Siberia. The entire thing was upright but tilted back at a bit of an angle. It had light-blue padding where he would lay. Straps hung beside it at chest and leg heights. There was a headrest and above that the end of the tube had an arch of some sort of metal that hinged together much as his old arm plates had.

He heard Steve take a deep, slow breath and let it out.

"So this is it?" Bucky asked to no one in particular.

Dr. Ifede answered. "This is the cryo chamber, yes. It has yet to be configured for you, but that's something that does not take long. They adjust for your height and weight, things like that."

"How… what's the actual procedure?"

Instead of answering herself, Dr. Ifede waved her hand toward a young woman who was standing near the examination table. She smiled at him, her dark eyes kind. "My name is Shuri, Sergeant Barnes." She held out her hand and he shook it. Her grip was firm. "Although I do not directly oversee operations here, the cryo lab falls within my purview. I am well versed in every aspect of its operations, and I will be assisting with the procedure should you choose this option. I will be pleased to answer any questions you have."

Bucky wasn't sure he could sort out a coherent question at the moment, so he just nodded.

Dr. Ifede's eyes gleamed with amusement. She leaned forward and whispered, " _Princess_ Shuri is T'Challa's sister. She is, as usual, being too modest—she is the one who developed the cryogenic program. She has a list of degrees and titles as long as her arm and is, in my opinion, the most brilliant scientist in all of Wakanda, which also means all of the world."

"Shh, Dr. Ifede. There is no need for such boasting."

"Of course there is… Sergeant Barnes needs every reassurance that we will be taking the best care possible of him and there is no one in Wakanda who understands the cryogenic process as well as you."

If Bucky felt tongue-tied before, he felt triply so now. "It's, uh, an honor," he finally stammered. "Thank you. For everything."

Shuri smiled. "You are quite welcome. As my brother said to me, helping you will go a very long way toward righting the wrongs done to both you and our father. To that end, I am developing your new arm. I am also assisting Dr. Lu, working to see what, from the biotechnological side, can be done to eradicate what HYDRA put in your mind. I have several ideas that may work, but I have yet to fully develop them. It will take time, but I am confident."

Bucky still struggled to find a way to respond, so he just nodded and hoped he didn't look too much like an idiot. Damn it, he wasn't worth all this.

"As for your question about the actual procedure," she continued, "you will come here at a time of your choosing. You will shower and change into comfortable clothing. We will then take your vital signs and start an IV, through which we will administer a mild sedative, simply to calm your nerves. We want this to be a peaceful, helpful step in your healing and not something that will stir unpleasant memories."

Bucky swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. _Lady, I do not deserve your kindness, but thank you... thank you.  
_

She smiled again, a trifle sadly, and went on. "After the sedative has started to take effect, you will step into the chamber and we will strap you in." She saw the wince he couldn't hide. "Yes, that is exactly why we must give you the sedative. I can only imagine that being restrained in any way is a point of keen anxiety for you."

"Yeah, uh… not really a fan of any kind of straps."

"We will go at your pace, and of course you may change your mind at any step along the way."

Bucky nodded. Team Pterodactyl wasn't reassured.

"The glass cover will slide over you and as it does, we administer a second, extremely very fast-acting sedative. You will be asleep before the temperature drops even one degree."

Bucky really wished Team Pterodactyl would retire. "And after, when you unfreeze me?"

"We warm you very slowly and carefully, again administering a sedative to keep you asleep until you are fully warmed. You will awaken in a bed, not in the chamber, and you will have warm blankets covering you. Your friend Steven, Dr. Ifede, or whoever you wish will be by your side, so the first impression you will have upon awakening is that little time has passed and that you are safe and well."

That… didn't sound so awful. It was as he suspected—no jerking him out of the chamber, still half frozen. No dragging him across the room, weak and boneless, to be hurled into a chair to have his brain fried. It sounded peaceful, calm and… restful.

He was tempted to crawl in immediately.

Then he looked at Steve's stricken face. Yeah. Not yet. Hopefully not ever. He took a deep breath. "Okay. How will you know when to wake me up?"

She nodded. "That is a very good question. For the most part, you, yourself, will set the parameters. We will ask that you give us specific directives on the circumstances you require to be in play before we awaken you. It could be as simple as, 'Wake me when my friend Steven returns.' Or you may choose to remain asleep until Dr. Lu and I have developed a treatment with a high probability of success. One of my hypotheses, should it prove viable enough for testing, is to remove the triggers while you are still in cryo and then awaken you after treatment is complete."

"That all sounds pretty good," Bucky said.

"It will be as comfortable and reassuring as we can make such an option, yes. But I must say this: the world is not a stable place. This, sadly, we all have learned from my late father's murder, the events in Sokovia and even back to the attack on New York City. Wakanda has always been a secure nation, but if the entire planet should come under attack…" She shrugged eloquently. "We tell each of our cryo patients that should some disaster strike, whether natural or man-made, they may be unfrozen and led to safety. For some, that will unfortunately amount to a death sentence from the currently incurable diseases that beset them. For you, however—it could be that you must be awakened in order to help protect Wakanda, or the world itself. You may not be fully yourself, but your skills nevertheless are something that the world needs."

"I understand," Bucky said. "And I completely agree: if something is happening and you need my help, skip the blanket and cookies and just zap me in the microwave, put a gun in my hand and point me at the enemy."

Steve let out strangled snorting sound that might have been a laugh. Shuri didn't bother hiding her rich laughter. "Oh dear, I hope that will not be necessary, but it is good to know that you are still the heroic soldier we have all read about in the history books."

Bucky felt his face go fiery. He stared down at his feet. "Yeah, well… not really, but I'm trying to find that guy again."

Steve squeezed his right shoulder. "You pretty much already have, pal."

"Do you have any other questions, Sergeant Barnes?" Shuri asked.

He couldn't think of any. "Thank you for explaining everything so well and for, well, trying to make it as painless as possible."

She smiled as she bowed her head to him. He liked the way her eyes crinkled in the corners. After she left, he took a deep breath. "Nice gal," he said.

"She is a very nice gal," Dr. Ifede agreed. "Now, I understand from speaking with Dr. Lu that you have some sort of fighting match you want to engage in?"

"Yeah… I gotta know if Ndembo and Ndale can hold me back, in case…" He shrugged.

"Well. I am not sure I approve, but if Dr. Lu has given his okay, I will not stand against it, providing you've healed sufficiently. So," she said as she patted the examination table, "off with your shirt."

"Can't I just tell you how I feel, which, by the way, is fine?"

"I am happy to hear that, but no, I must examine you myself. Now come, it's nearly lunch and I can hear your friend's stomach growling from here."

Steve's ears turned red as he patted his stomach.

Bucky sighed and pulled his shirt off. Her hugs were nice, but he sure was getting tired of being poked and prodded by this woman.

-o0o-

"So now that you have the all clear and Dr. Lu's got it all set up for tomorrow, what's on the agenda in the meantime?"

"Lunch. Haven't thought beyond that."

Bucky and Steve were sitting in an atrium café in the cryo lab building. Bucky had ordered steak and potatoes, with a giant slab of chocolate cake for dessert. Steve was eating… salad. What the hell. And he wasn't eating so much as stirring it around and around on his plate. Bucky watched him in silence for a few minutes, then said, "Stop it."

Steve glanced up. "What?"

"Bad enough you ordered rabbit food, but now you're just playing with it. Eat, already."

Steve dropped the fork and sat back. "Not hungry, I guess."

"Three guesses why."

He ticked them off on his fingers. "James. Buchanan. Barnes."

"Gee, thanks for the guilt trip."

"No guilt. But I'm worried."

"You, worried? I never would have guessed, you hide it so well."

"Although when you act like this, I'd be more than happy to dump you into a cryo tube and hit the button myself."

Bucky grinned and shoved a bite of steak in his mouth. Damn, it was good. "I'll be fine. In or out of cryo." After talking with Shuri, he was almost ready to believe that. She seemed no older than the Spidey kid, but the way her eyes gleamed with quiet confidence and intelligence had settled something inside of him, almost like one of the pterodactyls had finally given up and flown back to the Jurassic Age where it belonged.

Steve didn't answer.

Bucky studied Steve as he chewed. He jabbed his fork at him. " _You'll_ be fine."

Steve shrugged.

"I mean, come on. You survived all right after they chipped you out of that glacier. You've been living your life, making friends, even smiling now and then. Hell, you even kissed a girl, how 'bout that?"

Steve's cheeks turned pink.

"What I'm sayin' is that you didn't die from grief after I supposedly went splat on the side of a mountain in 1944."

"Maybe so, but this still kinda feels like Bucky Dies, The Sequel."

"Pal, I ain't dying. I'm just… possibly gonna take a long-ass, overdue nap. Might even get my brain fixed while I'm asleep, ain't that something?"

That finally coaxed a small grin out of him. "Well, when you put it like that, how can I object?"

"You can't. Not your decision."

"True." Steve picked up his fork and took a bite of salad. "I know I've harped on it already, but it's kinda surreal, you know? You being here when all that time I figured you were dead. There's a monument to you in Washington, DC, did you know that?"

"Yeah, saw it at the Smithsonian. They gave me two different damn birth dates. That's a bad thing for anybody to see in a display about themselves, but really terrible when you don't remember which one is right."

"March 10, 1917. I'll send you a card. Or if you're frozen, I'll scratch 'happy birthday' in the frost on the glass."

Bucky paused his eating long enough to lift his middle finger at Steve.

"Do that again, I'll break it."

"You can try. Tomorrow, in fact."

Steve grinned. "Don't tempt me. But seriously, I meant the memorial over at Arlington. There's a grave site and a big marker. No one's buried there, of course."

"Obviously."

Steve laughed. "See, this is exactly what I'm talking about when I say it's surreal. You're here. There's symbolic grave sites for you on two different continents, yet here you are, sitting across from me, sassing me like you always did back in the day. Eating a steak like it's no big deal."

"This steak _is_ a big deal. Best one I've ever had."

"I still have trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that you're here, that you're… you."

"Was somebody else for a long time, though." Another bite. _Don't think about it, Barnes. You're actually in a pretty good state of mind. Just... think about how awesomely amazing this steak is._

"But you're getting back to… no, I shouldn't say that. You're becoming whoever you want to be now."

"Lotta people won't like that."

"Lotta people don't know Bucky Barnes like I do."

Bucky carefully salted his potato. "Do you think people will ever trust me?" _So much for the good state of mind…_

Steve went back to shoving his salad around his plate. "I honestly don't know. I guess it will just depend on how things go. I know my team trusts you, and of course King T'Challa and many people here do. That's not a bad hand to start rebuilding your life with."

"Don't forget the donut maker and the little old lady in Bucharest. And a guy in St. Louis named Kowalski."

"You could do worse."

Bucky slowly shook his head. He let out a soft laugh. "I know you're sick of hearing me say it, but I don't deserve even that much. But… I appreciate it, more than I can ever say."

Steve for once didn't harangue him about innocence and "not your fault" but just lifted his fork. "To the end of the line, which will not be frozen in a tube in Wakanda."

"Life beyond cryo. I'll eat to that," Bucky agreed and shoved the last bite of steak in his mouth.

 _tbc..._


	32. Chapter 32

_**Many, many thanks, as always, for the reviews. I so enjoy reading the ones I can't reply to and I so enjoy chatting with those of you I can. I appreciate every last one of you.**_

 _ **This… is probably not the chapter you were expecting, but hey, there's still a lot of hours before the sparring match and Bucky and Steve gotta fill 'em somehow. Also, as there's no way on this big blue planet I'll get this finished by the time Black Panther opens, I'm tossing all deadlines and intend to just keep on telling the story as it unfolds, without rushing, because I have learned I am a terrible writer when I try to rush. If BP guts everything, oh well, it's still fun.**_

 _ **So… hope you enjoy.**_

-o0o-

Bucky had just swallowed the last bite of his second piece of chocolate cake and was considering going back and getting a third when Steve suddenly smiled and stood up. Bucky twisted around and saw Dr. Ifede walking toward them, carrying a cup of coffee and a pastry.

Bucky hurried around to pull a chair out for her. "Hi again," he said.

She took the seat. "Thank you, and hello, yourself."

Bucky and Steve resumed their seats, and Bucky pointed at her cup. "So doctors eat and drink like actual humans?"

"Now, none of your cheek, Mr. Barnes. Of course we do." She glanced at the remains of his steak and the two plates with nothing but chocolate cake crumbs. "Though perhaps not as much as super soldiers." Then she looked what was left of Steve's salad. "Although… a salad, Steven? Is that truly enough to sustain your metabolism?"

"It was a big salad. Had meat in it and I ordered extra croutons."

She raised an eyebrow. "You have a reputation for being an honest man, yet I feel you lie to me more often than not."

Bucky was glad he didn't have anything in his mouth. He surely would have choked to death otherwise. He couldn't hold back a loud snort, though.

Steve's glare at Bucky could have cut through Tony Stark's armor, but he didn't say anything.

Dr. Ifede turned to Bucky. "What are your plans for the afternoon?"

"Uh… aside from maybe getting another piece of cake, nothing?" He glanced at Steve.

"Nothing on my plate," Steve said. "Not even more salad."

"I have a suggestion, then, if I may?" Dr. Ifede asked. When she received two nods in return, she said, "I have heard that the two of you, apart from Steve's meetings with the Dora Milaje and King T'Challa, have not ventured beyond the confines of the hospital complex. Am I right?"

Bucky lifted a shoulder. "Didn't seem right to wander around playing tourist when the country was mourning King T'Chaka." That he also didn't want to venture very close to panther gods or even statues of panther gods, he kept to himself.

"We also don't want to be noticed by anyone with the media," Steve added. "We are, after all, wanted fugitives. To be caught on camera here in Wakanda would reflect poorly on your nation and on King T'Challa."

"I see. Well, what if I were to offer a suggestion for an outing that does not put you in the public eye, but will still give you some respite from all this… tedious medical humdrum and mission preparation?"

Bucky grinned. "Tedious humdrum? You work here, you know."

"Which is precisely what makes me absolutely qualified to call it tedious and humdrum, although you, my boy, are a bright spot." She patted his hand while he rolled his eyes. "Do not get me wrong, all of what you're undergoing as far as treatment and care is absolutely necessary, but so is reminding yourself that life goes on in the world outside this complex."

"I played with a monkey and climbed a rock-climbing wall. Does that count?"

"That does indeed count. Was it the monkey outside your apartment building?"

"Yep."

"He is an adorable little fellow. But you need more than that, especially with all that is looming in the next day or so. You need some time to simply enjoy yourselves. Here, then, is my proposal: the royal family established a panther sanctuary long ago and maintains it still to this day. It is a place where orphaned cubs and injured adults receive care and rehabilitation and those who cannot return to the wild live out pampered and sheltered lives. I think a private visit for the both of you would be just the thing."

"That sounds great to me," Steve said. "Been a long time since I did anything just for fun."

Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek. "Is it like a sacred place? Like, would we be defiling anything if we went?"

"It is, in that we venerate the panther as a sacred animal, but it is also a simple nature preserve, sanctuary and scientific research facility. Holy animals panthers may be, but they often need care. Everyone is welcome to tour; they need merely make an appointment."

"Okay, then," Bucky said. "Count us in. When do we leave?"

"I will call for a driver to take you."

Bucky smiled. Maybe it'd be Hasana.

-o0o-

It wasn't Hasana who pulled up to the curb to greet them. The woman behind the wheel of the black SUV with _Royal Panther Reserve_ painted discreetly in gold on the doors was elderly, with a cloud of gray-white curls. Heavy gold panther-head earrings danced against her warm brown skin, and her shirt matched the ones Bucky had seen explorers wear on wildlife documentaries, save that she wore several colorful bead necklaces and there was a black panther head embroidered on one of her pockets. As Steve and Bucky climbed in, she smiled at them and said, "Welcome, welcome! I am Wangeri, the director of the Royal Panther Reserve, and before you ask, yes, my name means leopard, which, if you did not already know, is what a black panther truly is, speaking taxonomically. Mind you both watch your heads and please put on the seat belts."

She didn't give them a chance to say hello but simply continued shooting rapid-fire facts at them without pause as they buckled in—Bucky in the front seat, Steve in the back. " _Panthera pardus_ is the scientific name, which is of course where we get the name panther. The term leopard dates back to the Greeks, who mistakenly thought the leopard was solely a cross between a lioness and a male panther, and thus took _leon,_ meaning lion, and combined it with _pardos_ , meaning male panther." She glanced over at Bucky as he struggled to fold his legs between the seat and dashboard. "Oh dear, you do have long legs, don't you." She reached down below his legs and yanked on a lever. His seat abruptly slid back nearly into the backseat. Good thing Steve was sitting behind the driver's seat or Bucky would have had two super-soldier knees where his kidneys once were.

Steve quietly laughed at him.

As Bucky fumbled with trying to scoot his seat back up a little, Wangeri's lecture continued without missing a beat. "While there is evidence of lion-panther crosses in ancient times and today some are deliberately crossbred in zoos and the like, a leopard is truly quite distinct genetically from a lion, but the name persisted. The black panther population that we venerate here in Wakanda is made up of melanistic leopards, whose dark coat is produced because of a recessive allele. A variant gene, to simplify it. My dear man, lift the lever higher and the seat will move more smoothly."

Bucky did and nearly threw himself through the windshield.

Steve suddenly sounded like his asthma had returned.

Wangeri wasn't the least distracted. "Cats with the recessive allele have an excess of melanin, a dark pigment, in their coats; thus we have the black panther, which is a far better name than melanistic leopard. King T'Challa would hardly intimidate anyone if he went by that name!" She turned slightly in the driver's seat so she could see Steve a bit better. "Black panthers always breed true—a black panther mother and father will have black panther cubs, which is how we have so many black panthers here in Wakanda. As we meet some of our black panthers today, you will see, in certain light, that they retain the rosettes that mark the coats of non-melanistic leopards, and I can see by the looks on your faces that you did not expect the tour to begin immediately, but I cannot help but be enthusiastic about the animals I adore. Now what are your names?"

Bucky was too busy fumbling with his seat and trying not to stare slack-jawed at the woman— _how does she talk so fast without breathing?—_ so Steve jumped in. He stretched his arm over her shoulder for an awkward handshake. "I'm Steve."

Bucky found his wits. "Bucky."

"Steve and Bucky. It is good to meet you," she said as she also shook Bucky's hand. She spotted Dr. Ifede, still standing on the sidewalk. "Are you coming along, my good doctor? It has been too long and there is a new litter!"

"I would love to, but I have patients waiting. Perhaps Saturday?"

"I will expect you. No excuses!"

With a wince-inducing grinding of gears, she pulled away from the curb, and Bucky's seat slammed backward again. Dear God, she drove every bit as fast as she talked. Bucky gripped the door handle and wondered what it was about Wakanda that caused the people to drive like the hounds of hell were pursuing them.

"Tell me, both of you, what do you know about leopards? By the way, that is how I will refer to them, so as not to confuse our panthers with the wildcat that lives in North America that is often called a panther. Your panther—which is referred to as a mountain lion, puma, cougar, catamount, panther and even, in a certain vernacular, a _painter_ —is an entirely different animal, of the genus _Puma_ , whereas our panthers are, as I mentioned already, in the genus _Panthera._ But I am not letting you answer my question! Again, I get carried away! What do you know about leopards? And please do put your seat belt on, Bucky, if you're done scooting the seat back and forth."

Bucky mumbled, "Yes, ma'am," and felt like a misbehaving five-year-old, but he got his seat belt on with a minimum of fumbling around.

"Growing up in Brooklyn," Steve said, "you don't see many leopards, except in the zoo. I just know they're strong and have sharp teeth and claws and if they're anything like T'Challa, I don't want to meet one when I'm walking through a dark alley. And if you call them panthers, don't change because of us. We barely know anything about North American ones anyway, so we won't get confused."

"Very well. That will make things easier for me. And what about you, Bucky? What do you know of panthers?"

"I could probably tell you more about what I don't know." _Lady, you don't know the half of that._ "This will be a good learning experience for me."

She smiled at him. "A man who admits his limitations is a good man."

Bucky had no answer to that, so as they zoomed out of the city up a twisting mountain road, he said nothing, concentrating instead on hanging on to the door handle and his stomach.

-o0o-

Bucky wasn't sure what to expect when they arrived at the sanctuary, other than knowing if they made it in one piece he'd jump out of the car and kiss the ground. As they passed under a massive stone gateway and stopped in front of a large thatched-roof building, he let out a quiet sigh (and didn't actually kiss the ground; he did have a few manners left).

As Wangeri took them around the pristine hospital nursery and spacious outdoor enclosures, he was very, very impressed. There were all kinds of big cats in the reserve staff's care, even a few lions, but most of the cats were panthers and all but one or two were black. There were adult cats with injured limbs or blinded eyes, there were youngsters that had been orphaned, and there was, as Wangeri promised Dr. Ifede, a new litter of cubs. There was also, to his delight, a gentle, tame panther that roamed freely around the compound. He was black as midnight, save for a white streak where a scar ran from the base of his right ear to the front of his misshapen jaw. Bucky was a little alarmed when the big cat decided to amble alongside him like a dog. While Bucky pondered whether he should run or play dead, the cat bumped his hand with his head.

"He wants you to pet him," Wangeri said, as if it were a normal, everyday thing for panthers to stroll up and demand a head rub. Which, around here, probably was exactly the case.

"Hey, big fella," Bucky said. He cautiously scratched between the cat's ears. "Nice kitty. Don't bite my hand off, please."

Wangeri laughed. "Do not fear. He is harmless. His name is Ikati, which is a Xhosa word for cat. Not very imaginative, but it suits him. He has lived here his entire life, all fourteen years of it, unable to return to the wild because of his physical difficulties. You see the scar—he is blind in his right eye in addition to having a deformed jaw that makes it difficult for him to eat, hence his small size compared to the average male adult. The injury was sustained in an attack on his litter, most likely by hyenas or wild boars, perhaps even baboons. He was the sole survivor, and because such severe injuries would have meant his certain death if left in the wild, we took him in. He nearly died despite round-the-clock care, but he proved a stubborn, strong little imp who grew into the beautiful animal you see before you. He is quite spoiled, deservedly so, but you can see how gentle he is. He is our good-will ambassador. Schoolchildren adore him."

Bucky more confidently scratched the left side of Ikati's head. The cat let out a pleased rumbling sound. "Is he purring?"

"No, panthers, like lions and tigers, cannot purr like smaller cats do. They do, however, rumble and groan and make all sorts of silly noises to show pleasure."

"Do they roar like lions?" Steve asked.

"Not as loud, nor as frequent. Panthers have a sort of loud grunting roar, almost like a saw going through wood. They use it to declare their territory. There are also mating calls, calls the mother makes to her cubs, and any number of other vocalizations. But no purring."

They continued to walk around the facility, marveling at all the cats. Wangeri was a fascinating tour guide, but eventually the flood of information started to wash over Bucky like so much indecipherable noise. His mind kept straying to tomorrow's sparring session and this morning's cryo tour and how Steve would react if he chose cryo and would the idiot survive the rescue mission and where Bucky would fit in this strange new world. Who was he going to be, once HYDRA's hold was broken for good? Where would he go, who would he live wi—

"Bucky?" Steve whispered, touching him lightly on the elbow. "You okay?"

Bucky realized he'd stopped walking and everyone was looking at him with worried eyes, even Ikati. He scratched the big cat's head _—how is this even real, that I can just casually reach down and scratch a panther's head?—_ and grimaced. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm just a little tired."

Wangeri immediately nodded. "Oh my, yes, yes… of course. Forgive me. I have forgotten that you were very recently injured and are not completely back to your full strength. Come. You may sit under this tree while I show Steve the rest of the compound. Ikati will keep you company."

Bucky smiled his thanks and sank down onto a huge exposed root. Ikati padded over to him and plopped down heavily at his feet. He immediately rolled onto his back with his giant paws waving in the air. Bucky wasn't entirely sure, but he seemed to want Bucky to rub his belly. He watched Ikati warily. Cats, he knew, didn't usually like belly rubs. He'd tried that with Kowalski's cat once and came away with shredded fingers. "Well, Ikati, what do you really want me to do? I reach down to pet your belly and you take off my only arm, I'm going to be in a world of trouble."

Ikati blinked once, then closed his eyes and stretched.

Bucky decided not to pet the big cat's belly.

Ikati rolled back upright and gave Bucky a disapproving look.

Bucky swallowed and quickly started scratching the big cat's back instead. That seemed to please him. He groaned softly and pushed his head hard into Bucky's hand, even reaching up with his enormous paw to guide Bucky's hand to just the right spot.

"Silly cat," Bucky murmured. "You're a good boy, though, yes you are." He scratched harder and completely lost all his dignity as he prattled away in baby talk. He got down on his knees beside the cat so he could reach him better.

Ikati was thrilled with this new development and rolled over again. Bucky took a chance and rubbed the cat's chest, taking care not to go too far down toward his belly. After a minute or two, Ikati rolled back over and leaned his head against Bucky so hard that Bucky lost his balance and fell backwards onto his butt and then his back. He had a bad moment when he found himself eye to eye with the giant black panther looming over him, but Ikati merely leaned down and licked the side of Bucky's face.

"Hey," Bucky laughed, "stop that!"

Ikati settled down on top of Bucky's chest, the better to reach Bucky's face with his very rough tongue.

Bucky started laughing and gave up pushing against the cat's head and instead sprawled out fully on the ground. Ikati must have decided Bucky's face was clean enough, because he stopped licking and dropped his head down on Bucky's chest, his chin nearly touching Bucky's. Ikati let out a long sigh that felt hot on Bucky's face and closed his eyes. Soon his breathing deepened and Bucky knew he was asleep.

 _Okay_. _I'm in Wakanda, laying on the ground under a tree and there's a panther asleep on my chest._

What the hell.

He wasn't going to complain, though. He grinned up at the leaves.

Nope. Not gonna complain. Not in a million years.

 _tbc..._


	33. Chapter 33

_**The Black Panther movie is out, of course, and I've seen it three times and would love to see it thirty-three more times. It took me quite a while to mull over the movie and my story, trying to figure out if there was any way I could mesh the two, and… there really isn't on any significant scale. I can and will include small details centered around characters and setting, but the timeline of my story doesn't mesh very well with the timeline of The Black Panther. So! I will just continue on as originally planned and do my own thing. Don't strain something trying to make this story match with much of anything other than the cryo scene of CACW. This story is, for all intents and purposes, canon-friendly AU. There might be small spoilers for Black Panther, but hopefully nothing that should ruin the movie for you if you haven't seen it, but rather make you think, "Oh, THAT'S what the little thing in chapter 33 was all about!"**_

 _ **Thank you to all my reviewers, and special thanks to Mellia Bee for telling me about the Ogden Nash poem:**_

 **A panther is like a leopard,  
except it hasn't been peppered.  
If you behold a panther crouch,  
prepare to say ouch.  
Better yet, if called by a panther,  
Don't anther. **

**Ogden Nash, 1947**

-o0o-

"For a second, when we came back, I was a little afraid Ikati had decided to have you for lunch." Steve was in the kitchen, rummaging around for food.

Bucky smiled a little from where he sat on the newly-replaced couch, staring out the window at the mountain. "Nah. He was amazing."

After prying Bucky away from Ikati, Wangeri had driven them back to the city and dropped them off at their apartment building a few minutes ago, chattering away the entire time about all the panthers the staff had saved over the years. Bucky had given Steve the front seat on the way back, and he had let most of what she said flow in one ear and out the other as he tried to savor the memory of Ikati sprawled across him. Bucky had felt so calm, so safe dozing under that tree. It had seemed as if nothing could touch him while the big cat was there to protect him. Not HYDRA, not his memories, not the governments that were surely still seeking his arrest. Nothing and no one.

He knew he'd never experience such a wondrous thing again, and he wasn't ready to let go of the feeling even now. He shut his eyes. He could feel the soft breeze playing with his hair and rustling the leaves above him. He could smell the fragrance of a flowering vine up in the tree, feel the cool earth beneath him and the reassuring weight of the big, warm head pressing against his chest—

"You want a sandwich?"

Bucky blinked his eyes open and just like that was back in the present with all its worries and complications and dread. The pterodactyls started stirring. _Damn it._ Steve couldn't see his face, so he indulged in a grimace, but he kept his voice even. "Sure. Whatever's in there."

Silence fell, broken only by the small noises Steve made as opened the refrigerator, getting out whatever he found to slap between bread. Bucky grimaced again; food sounded awful.

He took several slow, deep breaths. Shut his eyes and tried to find his way back to Ikati and the tree. Tried to remember the perfumed air and the chirps of the black and yellow birds hopping along the branches…

To his surprise, the pterodactyls went back to sleep.

He rubbed his face hard and stood. He needed to write down today's events, especially about Ikati, then read it and reread it so it would all stick firmly in his faulty memory. He couldn't bear the thought of forgetting the first time he had felt truly, absolutely at peace in over seventy years. He turned his back on the view and went to the desk to start writing. After a few minutes, Steve wordlessly placed a plate with a huge sandwich on it next to his elbow, then took his own over to the couch. Bucky kept on writing until he'd recorded every moment of the day that he could remember, right up to Steve fixing their late afternoon snack. He finally put down his pen, picked up the massive sandwich and took a big bite of cold cuts and mayonnaise.

There was… a lot of mayonnaise. A regular shit ton of mayonnaise. What the hell.

"Is it okay?" Steve asked. "You used to love a lot of mayo on your sandwich. Hope I got enough on there."

 _Gee, Steve, maybe you shoulda just made it into mayonnaise soup…._ But he didn't want to make Steve feel bad, so he just nodded. "Perfect."

Steve's eyes brightened as he continued eating his own sandwich, which probably wasn't drowning in mayo.

A memory flitted around. "Yours has… mustard?"

Steve's mouth was so full he couldn't speak, but he nodded.

" _Mayonnaise is better than mustard," Bucky said as he drummed his heels against the rung of the kitchen chair.  
_

 _Steve stuck his chin out. "Is not."_

" _Is too. Mustard makes people throw up."_

" _Does not!"_

" _Does too!" Bucky shouted._

" _Oh, yeah? Well, mayonnaise tastes like snail slime!"_

" _Like you've ever eaten snail slime."_

" _Boys, boys!" Sarah Rogers interjected as she placed sandwiches before each of them. "Mustard and mayonnaise are both delicious. Stop fussing at the table and eat."_

 _Bucky shut his mouth, but he glared at Steve, who glared back._

Oh man. The great Mayo-Mustard War of 1926. He and Steve had come to blows after that lunch, but thankfully it didn't do any lasting harm to their friendship. Bucky knew he should probably should jot the memory down, but his hand was slimy and he wasn't sure if he put down the sandwich he'd be able to pick it up again. He doggedly worked at it until the whole mess was nothing more than a few blobs of soggy crumbs on his plate. He took his plate to the kitchen where he rinsed and dried both it and his mayo-smeared hand.

Steve joined him with his own dirty plate. He grinned mischievously. "Snail slime."

"Oh god, you remember that?" Bucky asked.

"Like it was yesterday."

"To think we almost became mortal enemies over condiments."

"So did you like the bread?"

 _I don't know, Steve. It was too buried in mayo to taste._ He shrugged. "Dunno. It's bread, I guess?"

Steve pulled a slice out of the bag. "Taste it again."

Bucky gave him a skeptical look, but he took a bite. It was soft, kind of tasted a little nutty, maybe with some honey added. "So it's honey wheat. Don't you like it?"

"It's made with crickets."

Bucky spat the bite into the sink. "What the hell?"

"Yeah. I read the ingredients. It's got cricket flour in it. Has a lot of protein, I guess."

Bucky suddenly had a memory of being on a mission, somewhere in South America… something had gone wrong and no one was there to pick him up at the rendezvous point. He'd had orders to stay, so he stayed. For a long time. He didn't know how many days and nights, but he drank rainwater collected in leaves and when hunger finally got the best of him, he'd scrabbled in the mud and ate beetles…

He fought off echoes of the horrible loneliness and fear that crowded in despite the fact that he was far away from that place and time. _Come on, breathe. That was a long time ago. You're here now. Steve's here. T'Challa and Dr. Ifede and Dr. Lu are here. They won't abandon you. You're not alone anymore._ It didn't really ease the _gone_ feeling in his gut, but he tried to laugh it off. "Shit, Rogers, why'd you have to tell me that?"

"You gonna be sick?"

He scoffed. "No." _Maybe._ Awful memories aside, he'd just eaten… bug bread. He swallowed hard. _Come on, Barnes. It's just protein in a different form. Nothing more. Normal stuff for the Wakandans._ "Just… caught me off guard."

Steve gave him a look that said he believed that about as much as he liked mayo, but he merely said, "I've read that a lot of African cultures eat insects. Guess it's just not really what we're used to."

Bucky shrugged. He really didn't want to talk about it. _Think about Ikati…_ which reminded him. "Hey, um, can I ask a favor?"

"Sure, Buck. Anything."

"Can you draw a picture of Ikati for me?"

Steve smiled. "I can definitely do that. Just Ikati or the two of you together?"

"Together would be great, if you could. Maybe of us under that tree?"

"You got it, Buck."

After Steve returned and they settled on the couch, Steve paused before starting and said,

" _A panther is like a leopard,  
except it hasn't been peppered.  
If you behold a panther crouch,  
prepare to say ouch.  
Better yet, if called by a panther,  
Don't anther."_

Bucky stared at him. "What the hell is that?"

"A poem by Ogden Nash."

"Say it again."

Steve repeated it.

"Well, shoot, Wangeri could have saved a lot of words if she just recited that instead of telling us the entire history of panthers starting from the early Greeks onward."

"At least you didn't have to say ouch."

"Hey, if Ikati calls me, I will always anther. T'Challa, too, for that matter."

Steve grinned. For the next twenty minutes, silence reigned as Steve swiftly laid down the outline of Bucky and Ikati, sprawled on the ground under a huge tree.

Bucky looked askance at the expression Steve drew on his face. "Oh now, come one. I did _not_ look that sappy."

"Oh, but you did, my friend. If anything, I've toned it down."

"Never mind. I don't need a picture of me after all."

"Too late, pal."

Bucky grumbled a few choice curses under his breath, but they only served to make Steve smile more.

"So," Steve said after a few minutes, his voice studiously casual, "are you nervous about tomorrow?"

Bucky shrugged. "Maybe a little. Mostly I'm just ready for answers."

"Even if they're not the best answers?"

"Even if they're shit answers, yeah." He kept his gaze on Steve's pencil. "I'm tired, Steve. Tired of living with the garbage in my head. Tired of worrying that I'll hurt people. Tired of worrying that someone will find me and use me to do things I don't want to do. Tired of not trusting my own mind. I just want it to be over with."

Steve stopped drawing. "You saying you might wanna skip the sparring? Just go into cryo?"

Bucky took a long time before he answered. "It's tempting. But I need to see if I can control myself, I guess. Or if I can't, that someone else can without getting hurt." He smiled a little sardonically. "I owe it to Bucky."

"You owe it to yourself."

"Yeah, him too."

Steve took a deep breath and Bucky thought he'd be on the receiving end of another of Steve's rousing "you're still Bucky" speeches, but instead, Steve frowned a little sadly and nodded without saying anything else.

More minutes passed and the picture started taking shape as Steve started laying in the shading. He held it at arm's length a few times, checking his progress. During one of those moments, he asked, "Is talking with Dr. Lu helping you any?"

"Yeah, he's been really great. But he doesn't have a magic wand, you know?" He kicked his shoes off and pulled one knee up to his chest. "I need somebody with a magic wand."

"Shuri sounds like she's working on building one."

Bucky dropped his forehead to his knee and hummed a vague agreement. Shuri might come up with something. Or she might not. He didn't think he was brave enough to hope, and he was tired of that, too.

For a long time, he listened to the swish and scrape of Steve's pencil against paper, until a soft knock on the door surprised them both. Steve gave Bucky a wide-eyed glance, then hurried to open it. To Bucky's surprise, Ayo strode into the room. She had traded her dress and high heels for gold-trimmed red armor and black flat-soled boots. She even carried a spear. She said hello to Steve, barely glanced at Bucky, and then marched into both bedrooms and came back out. She stopped and faced Steve and Bucky, then pounded the butt of her spear twice on the floor. She stepped aside and there was T'Challa, smiling broadly at them both. Bucky blinked. He could have sworn no one came in the doorway, but then this was hardly the first time T'Challa had appeared out of nowhere. He was dressed in black slacks and a knee-length black tunic with elaborate embroidery around the collar and wrists. "So are they hiding a bomb they'll use to destroy my kingdom?" he asked Ayo, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

She gave him the same narrow-eyed look Bucky remembered Steve's mom giving Steve when he sassed her. "The suite is clear," she announced as she strode past him to presumably wait in the hallway.

T'Challa smirked at her, but he stepped further into the room. "My apologies for not calling first, but I have been visiting the children who are recovering here and decided to stop in and see how you are both doing."

Bucky shoved himself to go his feet. His bare feet. Again. Damn it, T'Challa must think he's some kinda backwoods rube. "Your highness," he said.

T'Challa grimaced. "Stop that. We are friends."

As he came around the couch, Bucky noticed he had on sandals. Suddenly having bare feet wasn't as embarrassing.

Steve waved him to a seat as he scooped up his sketchbook and supplies and dumped them on the coffee table.

"Are you an artist, Steven?" T'Challa asked.

Steve's ears turned red. "I like to sketch, anyway. Maybe in another life, I might have tried to earn a living at it."

"May I see?"

Steve's rosy ears deepened to a shade best described as cherry cobbler, but he handed over the sketchbook, which was still open to the one of Bucky laying under the tree.

T'Challa looked at it carefully. "I know this is unfinished, but it is still very, very good." He glanced at Bucky. "That is you and Ikati, am I right?"

Bucky nodded.

He handed the book back to Steve. "The likeness is extraordinary. You are a man with skilled hands." He then turned to Bucky. "I am glad you were able to spend some time at the reserve. Did you enjoy it?"

Bucky nodded. "Enjoy is not a strong enough word."

"Ikati has that effect on people. It is my hope you can spend much more time with him, in the peace of the countryside beyond the city."

Bucky licked his lips. "I'd like that, but I don't know if—" He twirled his finger around in a circle by his temple.

"You will be freed of all that currently besets your mind, of that I have no doubt."

"Can you spare me some of your confidence?"

"You will have plenty of your own, once you speak more with my sister. She is quite positive about a technique she is developing, but I can tell you no more than that because as we talked she suddenly started mumbling in half-sentences and unfinished words and then wandered off to her lab. I know, however, that when she gets that way, she is close to finding what it is she seeks. Now, I must ask you a question." He gave Bucky a searching look. "Dr. Ifede tells me you are to spar tomorrow?"

Bucky nodded. His palms suddenly started to sweat. "Is that… is that all right with you?"

T'Challa's dark eyes bore into his for so long that Bucky figured he was about to get thrown into whatever passed for a prison in Wakanda. "It is permitted, of course," T'Challa finally said. "But I wonder at the wisdom of such a thing. Ndembo and Ndale are fierce. I would not want them to hurt you. You must promise me you will yield, if it comes to that."

Bucky didn't think it was a good idea to tell T'Challa he was afraid he'd be the one doling out the injuries, so he merely nodded. "Of course, your highness."

"I also do not think it should be widely known that you will be battling with Wakandans, even with their blessing and mine, so the location of the match will be kept a secret, and no one will be allowed to observe save me, Dr. Lu, Dr. Ifede, Shuri and some of my Dora Milaje."

"You're going to be there?" Bucky asked.

"I want to see how James Buchanan Barnes, the man in control of his mind, handles himself in a fight."

"You pretty much already saw. I mostly scream and start running like a terrified toddler. I'm not much of a match when it comes to you and your claws."

T'Challa smiled. "You came closer than you realize to besting me."

"I don't think a king should lie to people."

"Perhaps when you are whole, body and mind, we can do some sparring ourselves."

What a stupendously awful idea. "Uh, no. No way I'm gonna spar with the king of Wakanda. I so much as bruise you and the Dora Milaje will rightfully stab me to death."

"Ah, they will do no such thing! In fact, my sister will likely give you a trophy."

Steve smiled. "Sounds like the king has no honor in his own house."

"Not from her, no. She and General Okoye have far too much fun at my expense." T'Challa leaned back more comfortably and crossed his ankle over his knee. "Perhaps when I am officially king she will give me some respect."

"Wait a minute," Bucky protested. "You mean you're not actually king yet?"

"All of the tribes of Wakanda will have an opportunity to challenge me for the throne. If there are no challenges or if I pass any challenges that arise, only then will I officially be crowned King."

"Physical challenges?" Steve asked.

T'Challa nodded.

"I can't imagine anyone besting you in combat," Bucky said.

T'Challa merely smiled. "It is possible, but I cannot reveal our customs to outsiders. And as much as I count you both as friends, you are definitely outsiders. It would not be taken lightly were I to reveal any of our closely held secrets."

Bucky felt his cheeks redden. "Of course. My apologies for prying."

"No apology needed. It is flattering that you are so interested in my country. Who is to say what the future holds—you may find yourself learning more about us at some point. But for now, the only thing you need to know is that you should eat well and then get a good night's sleep so that you will be in the best shape possible for tomorrow's match." He stood up. "I must go. It has been a pleasure talking to you both, as always."

This time Bucky hurried to the door and opened it for him. He glimpsed Ayo and another equally fearsome Dora in the hallway. Both gave him a hard look, then completely ignored him as soon as they saw T'Challa wasn't missing any limbs.

Bucky shut the door after they left. The pterodactyls took flight.

The soon-to-be-crowned king of Wakanda would be watching the match.

Well, _shit._

 _tbc..._


	34. Chapter 34

**Beginning note: A thousand apologies for taking so long with this chapter. My only excuses are that a) it's an important chapter that I needed to get absolutely right; and b) Infinity War messed me up, with the anticipation beforehand and the… well, the aftermath. Speaking of, this story ends well before anything in IW starts, but suffice to say that should I continue with another story after this, it will be AU to IW as far as a purple, ballsack-chinned alien barging in and making a nuisance of himself. IW was awesome and I loved it, but that ending… owwww. I need a different story to soothe my troubled heart. Whether that will be a coda story to this one (*sing with me* Farmer Bucky had a goat... e,i,e,i,o...) or going back to Bucky's days in St. Louis, I'm not sure yet. I have to finish this first, and we still have a little ways to go.**

 **Thanks to all guest reviewers, who I can't thank via message. Brendan, ffnet ate your review, but I appreciate your kind words. Happy birthday and sorry I missed it by a couple weeks with this.**

 **Any IW spoilers are coincidental. Please be considerate of others and do not include spoilers in your comments. Always feel free to message me over at Tumblr, LJ or here if you want to talk about IW in depth.**

 **Caution: Language. Quite a bit. Bucky is… very stressed out.**

-o0o-

Bucky was probably prouder than he should be of the fact that he did not whimper as he peeled himself off the floor. This go 'round, their fifth, Ndembo's opening move had been to toss Bucky across the room and into the gym wall, which he'd slid down to land in a stunned, undignified heap on the floor.

Ow.

Still, he was hardly down for the count. He knew he could spring to his feet in a flash.

He just... needed a moment. Maybe two.

Five times they'd fought, the three of them. The first two, Bucky very much felt the loss of the arm—he had staggered off balance more times than not before he finally adjusted. He didn't care to think too deeply on why he was able to compensate for such an impairment so quickly.

Five times they'd largely fought to a draw. He hadn't defeated the brothers, but neither had they subdued him, even when he was struggling to fight without the metal arm. They had, however, given him plenty of bruises, a scraped cheek, a cut across the bridge of his nose, and possibly a cracked rib. Dr. Ifede wouldn't be very happy about that.

He was battered a little, but he wasn't done, not by a long shot.

"I can do this all day," he whispered to himself.

 _Good God, it's come to this… I'm no longer Bucky Barnes. I'm no longer the Winter Soldier. My fear back in that London bar during the war has finally come true: I've become Steve Rogers._

He waved off Steve's look of concern as he slowly stood. He glanced up at the gallery of the king's private gym where T'Challa and his entourage watched: Dr. Lu and Dr. Ifede, both looking as worried as Steve; a half dozen Dora Milaje including Ayo, glaring as usual; T'Challa, expressionless; Shuri, openly curious. She raised her hand and some sort of holographic device materialized out of thin air above her wrist, but T'Challa put his hand up in front of it.

"No footage," he snapped.

"But, brother, _research_."

He glared at her until she rolled her eyes and fiddled with her bracelet. The hologram disappeared.

Bucky hid a smile. No respect for her brother, indeed, but at least she put the damn… whatever it was... away. Last thing he needed was for video of this fiasco to leak out onto the internet for the entire world to see.

He looked back at Steve, pacing along the wall at the edge of the sparring mats, jaw clenched. They'd talked earlier about what Bucky was going to try to do.

" _Steve, just be ready."_

 _He scowled. "What are you going to do?"_

" _Try to unleash the Soldier."_

" _Bucky, we already talked about this. It's too risky for you—"_

" _Steve, no. The stakes need to be real, or this whole thing is a waste of time. If they take me down as_ me _, that's good, but I have to know they can take down the Soldier, because that's when he's… I'm... at my strongest and most vicious."_

 _Steve rubbed the back of his neck, then muttered, "Damn it. All right. I'll be ready. Question is, can you really turn him loose?"_

" _I don't know."_

 _Steve shook his head. "You're an idiot."_

" _Yeah, well, and you're a punk, we established that in 1940-something. Look, I'll be fine, really. Stop worrying."_

" _Answer a question, then. The Soldier. Turning him loose. I don't even know what that means. Is he like a whole separate person inside of your head?"_

 _Bucky shrugged. "Not sure. Maybe. Maybe he's just a… manifestation of all my darker instincts." And wasn't that a hoot and a hell to think about. "I'm hoping Dr. Lu will help me sort that out. In the meantime, I just gotta hope I can figure out a way to control it. Him. Me. Whoever."_

" _So that's it. No other plan."_

" _Nope."_

" _Why am I not surprised."_

They'd left it at that. Nothing more to say until the thing actually happened. Or didn't, which was the way it was looking. He'd hoped (and _not_ hoped, which made no sense) that somehow the sparring would trigger the Soldier to take over, and then the brothers would pretty much destroy him and prove that it'd be safe to leave him in their hands when Steve was gone. But that didn't seem to be how this was going. The thought made him want to punch the wall.

"Are you ready to resume, Sergeant Barnes?" Ndembo called.

"Bucky. Call me Bucky. And yeah, in a minute."

Both brothers merely scowled. Their friendliness at the start of all this had faded with each successive bout, and now Ndale especially glared at him like he was the villain he used to be. Okay. That was good. They needed to view him as, if not a villain these days, at least a very violent, deadly antagonist.

Bucky lowered his head a little, glowering back through a veil of hair as he studied them. Many strong men had quailed under that cold gaze, but neither brother did. Also good.

Either man had the strength to squash him like a bug. Trouble was, he knew they wouldn't, despite their expressions. That was the weakness in the entire plan and what he feared was at play here. He couldn't count on them to be as ruthless as they needed to be. Hell, he was fast realizing he couldn't count on _himself_ to be as ruthless as the Soldier. He knew he was holding back, trying not to do any lasting harm as he tested the brothers' limits. So far, he hadn't reached those limits, but neither had they pushed him to his own. He knew what he still held in reserve. _Who_ he held in reserve.

He ran his hand over his hair. Tugged on it.

Damn it. He didn't want any of this.

" _It always ends in a fight."_

He was so sick of fighting.

Maybe… maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing to stop this nonsense and simply go into cryo until Steve came back. ( _If_ he came back, but that he might not was an eventuality Bucky wasn't ready to examine too closely.) Maybe he should just make the decision to go under on his own, regardless of whether it injured Ndemo and Ndale's pride or wasn't the last resort like Dr. Ifede preferred, or even if it devastated Steve. Keeping the Wakandans, and the entire world for that matter, safe from the Winter Soldier was the priority, and if this whole sparring match didn't satisfy him, then it was his decision to make and no one else's.

He should just make that decision now and be done with it. This was one fight he could choose to walk away from.

Trouble was, he knew he couldn't. It just wasn't in him to give up any more than it was in Steve to give up, and at this point, cryo even on his own terms felt too much like conceding the fight too early.

Hell, he was probably overthinking the Soldier's failure to appear. If five fights with two large, angry men didn't bring him out, maybe there wasn't much to worry about.

Then he remembered the nightmares and the destroyed furniture and just how damned destructive he could be when he wasn't in control during even the most run-of-the-mill flashbacks.

 _Shit._

He rubbed his face hard. Standing here debating with himself was accomplishing nothing. Stick to the damn plan, such as it is, and see what happens.

He tilted his head back and forth until his neck popped.

Thought about Siberia.

About Russia.

About trigger words and mind wipes and following orders and killing… and he felt the beginning of mental static hiss through his brain.

Okay then.

Time to go off the rails.

He ran at them, full speed. Let himself skirt the dark edges of his past, tapping into that black well of anger, fear and wretchedness, hoping he didn't completely lose his soul in the process.

He ducked under Ndembo's reaching arm.

 _Think of Karpov._

Kicked at Ndale, caught him in the hip and sent him flying. Twisted as Ndembo lifted his own leg to kick.

 _Think of Pierce._

Bucky used his arm to block and then shove Ndembo's leg aside. It was like knocking aside a tree trunk. His arm went briefly numb from the impact, but his legs were just fine, so he whirled and launched a spin kick. He underestimated Ndembo's speed, though, and the kick met empty air. He came down awkwardly, nearly falling as he stumbled past Ndembo.

 _Think of Zemo._

Ndembo took full advantage and flung an arm around Bucky's neck. Bucky tried tuck his chin, but he was too slow and Ndembo's arm tightened, pressing against his carotid. Lights, white and cold, popped around the edges of his vision. The throbbing, mechanical shriek of annihilation and ruin filled his ears, and under that he heard droning voices of his past, a dreadful chorus chanting as one words from a red journal...

"Желание…"

He strained against the arm across his throat, pulling it free long enough for the blood flow to his brain to briefly return, but he couldn't get proper leverage and the arm tightened again.

"Ржавый…"

Cold fog blinded him. When he blinked it away, he saw the bleak training room where screams of men and women echoed against bare concrete walls stained with blood, anger and hate.

"Семнадцать _…"_

A room where pain ruled, no matter if he won or lost, no matter how well he fought…

"Рассвет…"

But the Soldier would survive.

"Печь…"

The Soldier always survives.

"Девять…"

But he didn't have much time.

"Добросердечный…"

He would be punished for allowing his opponent to get him in a chokehold, but the punishment would be more severe if he couldn't break free before losing consciousness.

"Возвращение на Родину…"

He lifted his heel and scraped it hard along his opponent's shin, then stomped on his instep while driving his elbow into the man's ribcage. He was rewarded with a grunt and a slight loosening of the arm across his throat.

"Один…"

It was enough. He dropped free of the hold and screamed with rage as he spun around. His punch landed squarely on the man's jaw.

Heavy steps behind him. He whirled. Lashed out hard with his foot. Caught his attacker on the leg. Saw the knee buckle. He stepped in and drew his arm back for a killing blow.

"Товарный—"

Someone slammed into him from the side, drove him to the floor.

"Bucky, for God's sake, stop!"

 _The gray room disappeared with an explosion of rending metal and shattering glass, a ship falling from the sky…._

" _Your name is James Buchanan Barnes…"_

"Shut _up_!" he screamed as he fought against the man… _Captain America… his mission…_

The weight pressing him face down on the floor seemed to grow. "Bucky! You're in Wakanda! You're not the Winter Soldier! Come on, man, snap out of it!"

 _Wakanda… what…_

"Barnes," a second voice gasped from somewhere near his legs. T'Challa. It was T'Challa. "You are among friends. Return to your true self!"

Bucky… who the...

Oh. Oh, no.

He blinked and the gray walls vanished. He was on the floor, Steve pinning his shoulders and T'Challa his legs. "Oh god," he mumbled. "What did… it happened, didn't it?"

Steve's answer was curt. "Yeah."

Bucky tried to turn his head to find Ndembo or Ndale. Dread sat heavier on him than Steve and T'Challa's entire weight combined. "Where are… what happened… are they all right?"

"They'll live."

That was hardly reassuring. Live, but how? Completely fine? Crippled for life? He had to see. "Get off me."

"Are you in control?"

"Yes, damn it, now get off me! I gotta see if they're okay!"

Steve reluctantly let him go. Bucky pushed himself up, twisting to nod at T'Challa, stretched across his lower legs, wearing his Black Panther suit minus the helmet. "Get up." Then he remembered T'Challa was a king. "Please."

T'Challa rolled smoothly to his feet. With both men out of the way, Bucky sat up and finally saw Ndembo and Ndale, thankfully both still on their feet. Ndale was gingerly walking around, testing his knee while Ndembo stood beside him, breathing heavily and working his jaw back and forth as he held a towel against his bleeding lip.

Bucky collapsed onto his back. He covered his face with a hand that shook like an old man's. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He rubbed his throat. "I was letting myself think… think about the Russians. HYDRA. My handlers. And when he… when he got me around the neck, I started hearing the words. Let myself go too far. Thought I was in—"

"It's okay, Buck," Steve said quietly.

Hot tears rolled down Bucky's temples into his hairline. "No, it's not okay," he mumbled. "God damn it. I hoped..." He didn't know what he had hoped. That the brothers would defeat the Soldier, certainly, but he realized he was far more devastated that he couldn't control himself. Couldn't control his mind. Again.

"I know, buddy."

 _No, Steve, you don't. You've never been in a position where you can't trust your own goddamn mind._ But he couldn't say that. Wouldn't be fair to Steve, who had kept him from possibly going on a killing spree because he _consciously chose to unleash the Soldier_. That Bucky felt even the least bit of relief that Steve stopped him was pretty much lost in the overwhelming guilt crashing over him for making such a stupid, potentially lethal decision, even if it had been the only way to really _know_. His stomach started to churn. Not pterodactyls this time, but full-on gut-twisting pain that couldn't be shrugged off with a stupid metaphor.

God, his life was beyond fucked up.

He stared at the ceiling until he was sure vomiting wasn't in his immediate future, then shoved himself back to a seated position. Ndembo walked over and squatted down beside him. "I'm sorry," Bucky said. He couldn't meet Ndembo's eyes.

"Fear not. You have done us no lasting harm."

He finally met Ndembo's gaze. "Would you have been able to stop me?"

Ndembo hesitated. Glanced at Ndale, who had limped over to join his brother. At Ndale's slight head shake and one-shouldered shrug, Ndembo said, "Not with enough certainty. We are sorry."

His answer didn't come as a shock. "That's all right."

Ndembo extended his hand. "Come, now. Stand. Please do not see this as a defeat."

It was, though. It was one more defeat in a lifetime that felt full of nothing else. But Bucky stayed silent as he let Ndembo pull him to his feet. He looked up toward the balcony. Took in the faces of people who had become friends. Who had pledged to support him and help him.

For a split second, his mind stuttered and static rose and he imagined them all broken, bleeding, killed by his own hand.

 _By his own hand. By his own choice._

He very nearly did throw up then. He clamped his lips shut and breathed deeply through his nose.

Steve started to put his hand on his shoulder, but let it drop instead. "Buck? You okay?"

Bucky nodded, but he didn't say anything. He stared at the floor.

 _Breathe._ _Focus_. _What do you actually see?_

Shiny polished wood, a rich golden brown color. High-density foam mats on top, black, with a green stripe running all the way around the edges.

 _Breathe, Barnes. Focus. You're here. You're present. You're safe. They're safe._

They have to remain so. Remain safe. No harm can come to them because of him. He bent with his hand on his knee, still trying to calm his racing heart and panicked breathing.

No harm.

No harm.

Breathe.

 _Breathe, damn it._

He shut his eyes. Squatted down when he felt the room tilt.

No harm.

Breathe.

Focus.

 _No harm._

There was only one way to ensure that beyond any chance of failure.

Acceptance came with such a rush of relief he again felt his eyes sting from tears.

He finally looked up at Steve and T'Challa. "I guess I have my answer."

 _tbc..._

 _A/N: the Russian words are, of course, his trigger words. Found via about a hundred different sites, so apologies if the Cyrillic lettering isn't as accurate as it should be._


	35. Chapter 35

_**Whew, each chapter is getting more and more challenging! Many thanks to all of you for sticking with this, and thank you to the guest reviewers!**_

-o0o-

There was a lot of awkward shuffling after that. T'Challa moved a few steps away, to give him some privacy. Dr. Lu and Dr. Ifede pushed past Steve to gaze at him like he'd just announced he had a terminal illness. Steve looked like his dog died, his best girl broke up with him and Christmas was cancelled all combined, and everyone seemed afraid to say a word.

Bucky sighed. He wanted to tear at his hair and run screaming from the building, but he supposed that wasn't really an option. The odd disconnect with reality that always plagued him after the Soldier put in an appearance was making his chest hurt and his knees wonky, but he braced himself and waved the two doctors back. He then took Steve by the elbow and walked with him to a corner of the gym, away from everyone. His feet weren't feeling as attached as they should be, but he made it to the corner without falling on his face, so score one for Barnes. "I'm sorry," he said. He grabbed his hair. Tugged at it.

"Bucky, no. Stop it. You're always apologizing when you don't need to. You have to do what you think is best. This is about you, not me. I just…" He stopped talking in favor of rubbing the back of his neck.

"What?"

"I just want you to be sure you're making the right choice."

"It's not like it's irreversible."

"No, yeah… no, it's not. Look, ignore me." He was giving the back of his neck a real workout. "I just… want you to have your life back and you having to do this—" He waved his arm in what Bucky assumed was the general direction of the cryo lab. "It's just not what I hoped for."

"Yeah, I know. I get it. But I think—"

"Sergeant Barnes?"

He looked down at Shuri, who had quietly walked up without his noticing, which didn't do good things to his heart rate, but he was proud of himself for not immediately dismembering her. Score two for Barnes. He was on a roll. "Princess, I'm sorry, I didn't see you."

"I can be very sneaky," she said, with a ghost of an impish smile. She grew serious. "I wonder if I might have a word with you, to perhaps reassure you about your decision."

Bucky had little desire to talk to anyone, even Steve, but she was not only a princess, she was looking at him with more excitement than sorrow and that intrigued him. "Okay. You don't look like you're about to weep over me, so I'm listening."

"No, definitely not weeping. I want to assure you, Sergeant, that I am very close to a breakthrough on a method to release you from the damage HYDRA did to you and the hold they still have on your mind. Very close! You see, when you first arrived and I learned of your troubles, I started an in-depth study on the pathology of post-traumatic stress, coercive persuasion, mind control and traumatic brain injury…" She started tossing twenty-five dollar words around. Ventromedial prefrontal cortex. Hippocampus. Myelination patterns, DNA expression and neural plasticity.

Bucky felt his eyes glaze over.

She laughed at his confusion. "Oh dear, I apologize. These are terms that I know you are not familiar with, so suffice to say that I am _this_ close to finding the solution to restoring your mind to you. I am positive that what must be done may be done while you are in cryo, and may even be done with more efficacy while you are in a suspended state."

That made him blink. Restore his mind while _in_ cryo? "Um, okay. Wow. That sounds good? I guess?"

"It _is_ good. There is so much I could tell you, but I will just say for now that you truly need not fear that you'll regress in your recovery if you choose to go into cryo for a time."

The fist that had tightened itself around Bucky's heart since losing himself to the Soldier unclenched just a little bit. "Thank you," he said softly.

She smiled, touched his arm lightly, then joined her brother.

Then Bucky saw Dr. Ifede and Dr. Lu coming toward him. Beyond them, everyone else hovered, watching him, their eyes still holding mingled concern, sorrow and apprehension. He wanted to growl at them all like a cornered wolf.

 _Yeah, folks, you got to see it. Got to see the monster. Show's over, go home, stop worrying. The wolf's gonna put himself in a cage so he won't hurt anyone._

Of course, he didn't growl, much as he wanted to. Instead he looked helplessly at Steve.

"You want me to run interference while you get some air?"

Bucky barely had time to mutter, "Thanks, pal," before he bolted for the door.

-o0o-

Steve gave him a full hour before he showed up in the conservatory garden Bucky had found in the center of the building. Bucky had wandered aimlessly through several hallways, wondering where he could go to sit and think, before he found this quiet spot. Beneath a weatherproof glass ceiling, there was a bench surrounded by green trees and large pots of all kinds of bright flowers in nearly every color of the rainbow. Water trickled quietly from a wooden spigot into a shallow basin. There were even butterflies floating around. A lot of them. One nearly as large as his hand with beautiful blue and black wings landed on his knee. He spent a peaceful ten minutes watching it slowly open and close its wings.

Would he crawl into cryo like a caterpillar and come out to soar like a butterfly?

He didn't know. Even if he didn't, he took some comfort in the fact that even the most poisonous caterpillar couldn't kill anyone while it was in its cocoon.

He was surprised, now that his decision was made, that he didn't feel more apprehensive. Maybe it was Shuri's confidence. Maybe it was the overall kindness of everyone from Dr. Ifede to Dr. Lu to T'Challa himself. Maybe it was that the Wakandan cryo lab was leagues different from anything HYDRA had thrown him into.

He shivered. It was still cryo, though, and there were still a lot of shitty memories trying to raise ugly screams in the back of his mind.

He watched as another butterfly, this one small and bright yellow, landed on the back of his hand. He felt another one light on his head, and an orange and black one joined the blue one on his knee. He must look ridiculous, the world's most deadly assassin, covered in butterflies.

He didn't mind looking ridiculous.

He thought about the kindness of the Wakandans. Thought about how this place was feeling more and more like… home.

He remembered Zemo, taunting him about his supposed true home. Trying to make him believe that the only acceptable existence for him was to return to the life of a mindless puppet controlled by a murderous regime. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Could he have been right? Was the monster too big to defeat?

Steve would say no.

T'Challa would say no.

Dr. Ifede. Dr. Lu. Shuri. Hell, even Sam Wilson would say no. Probably. They had all been bending over backwards, trying to encourage him, convince him he was worth all the trouble they'd been going through to help him. To show him they trusted him, despite the monster lurking in his head.

He opened his eyes. The butterflies were still sitting on his leg and hand, and he guessed his head, too. He watched the yellow one's long tongue delicately lick his skin.

Hell, even the damn bugs in this place seemed to trust him.

He slowly lifted his hand to eye level. "Why do you trust me?" he whispered.

The butterfly simply kept licking his hand.

He smiled at it. "And why are you licking me?"

Something he'd have to look up sometime.

The door to the conservatory opened and he heard footsteps. He didn't have to look to know they were Steve's. The wooden bench creaked as Steve sat down beside him. Bucky nodded at him, but neither of them said anything for several minutes. The butterfly finally tired of tasting Bucky's hand and fluttered away.

Steve watched it. "Pretty spot."

"Yeah."

More silence. Steve glanced at the top of Bucky's head and grinned, but he didn't say anything. Butterflies floated by. The water trickled. Time seemed to stand still and rush by too fast, all at once.

"Remember when you showed up in my kitchen, in Bucharest?" Bucky finally said.

Steve grunted.

"And you told me, 'This doesn't have to end in a fight, Buck.' And I told you it always ends in a fight." He gestured at the scrapes on his face. "Shoulda figured."

"We do seem to get in our share of scraps."

"You could call them that."

More silence.

Bucky sighed. "I'm tired, Steve. Bone-deep exhausted."

Steve nodded. Looked sympathetic but thankfully didn't launch into any of his All-American gotta-keep-going speeches. "When will you do it?" he finally asked.

"Sooner the better, probably. Nothing keeping me out here but you, and you need to prep for your mission. Don't want to distract you."

"You're never a distraction, Buck."

"Now there's a damn lie."

Steve lolled back against the bench and stretched his legs out. "Yeah, guess I've been a little distracted, last few years. I still wish you would've just come to me from the start."

Bucky thought back to his state of mind during those early months after Washington, DC. The confusion. The rage. The ugly withdrawal from all the drugs they'd pumped into him. He'd been like a wounded animal, needing to retreat into solitude while his body decided whether to live or die. He'd lived, but he still wasn't sure that was a good thing, and maybe that was part of the reason he was so ambivalent about going into cryo. It was like dying without the permanent consequences, and there was no fucking way in hell he would say that to Steve right now. He finally shrugged a little. "Wouldn't have been a good situation. I was really messed up, had to find my way to the surface on my own."

Steve gave him a long look, but he nodded. "You always were the kind to disappear when you got sick."

Bucky remembered sore throats, coughs, hiding in his room, snapping at anyone who came in, even his mom. _"I just wanna be alone, all right? Get out!"_

"Didn't wanna gag on the nasty medicine you woulda made me take."

"I'm not your mom, Buck."

"Yeah, tell me another one, Captain Nanny. I know how you've been all this time. Hovering like a hen with one chick. If I'd showed up, you'd have had Wilson pin me down while you poured nerve tonic down my throat."

"No one uses nerve tonic these days."

"Yeah, guess not."

Silence fell again. Then Steve leaned forward to put his elbows on his knees. "Gonna miss you."

Bucky took his time answering. "You're gonna miss the _idea_ of me. What I am now… not sure there's enough of me there to miss." And wow, that came out more bitter than he wanted.

Fortunately, Steve showed massive wisdom by keeping his mouth shut.

He tried again. "I just need to figure out who I am. I'm tired of not feeling like… me. Gotta find Bucky Barnes, make sure he's still in there somewhere. Gotta let Shuri and her team get HYDRA outta my head, gimme a chance to see if there's anything left of him."

Steve nodded. Still didn't say anything, probably because he had a lump in his throat, if the red blotches blooming on his cheeks were any indication.

Bucky reached over and gave Steve's neck a squeeze. "It'll be okay, pal."

Steve nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again. Stared at his shoe tops. Hunched his shoulders.

"Aw, to hell with it," Bucky muttered and pulled him close in a hug. "Go ahead and bawl."

He did. Bucky might have cried some to, but he wasn't about to tell anyone. Except that the Steve under his arm was as big as a house, it could have been that day in 1933 when Norma Baumgartner had laughed in Steve's face when he asked her out for an egg cream.

" _It ain't fair, Buck. None a'the gals give me a chance."_

" _Nah, you're just askin' the wrong girls, punk. You'll find the right partner one of these days. It's early yet. You're gonna hit that growth spurt and they're gonna throw themselves at your feet, cuz you'll be the handsomest guy on the block."_

" _Maybe," Steve muttered, then he squinted at Bucky, scowling. "You tell anybody I cried and I'll knock your block off."_

" _I'll take it to the grave, pal."_

Steve took a shuddering breath. He swiped away his tears with a hand that was bigger than his entire head used to be. "You tell anybody I cried and I'll knock your block off," he muttered.

Bucky smirked. "I'll take it to cryo, pal."

"You remember that day?"

"Yep. Just now did. May Norma Baumgartner die a lonely spinster. If she hasn't already." He pulled his arm off Steve and worked a cramp out of his shoulder. "You were a helluva lot easier to comfort back when you were a shrimp."

Steve shrugged. "I hit a growth spurt."

"Overachiever as always."

Steve laughed, but his smile died a quick death. "I'm probably still gonna ask you a dozen more times if you're sure about it. Cryo."

"I probably need to answer a dozen more times. But I'm 99.9% sure it's the thing to do. Especially with what Shuri said. I gotta let them figure out how to get all that outta my head, and the world needs to be safe from me until they do." He took a deep, deep breath and then let it out just as slowly. "It'll be okay."

And for the first time in a long, long time, he believed it.

 _tbc..._


	36. Chapter 36

Bucky's intention was to charge straight to the cryo lab before his nerve failed him, but T'Challa had other ideas. The king, or crown prince or whatever the hell his title really was pre-coronation, and two of his ever-present Dora Milaje had apparently been lurking outside the conservatory, waiting on them to emerge. When Bucky saw a dark shadow move in his peripheral vision, he didn't _exactly_ jump out of his skin, but he came to such an abrupt stop that Steve bumped into him. Bucky spent three very fast heartbeats banishing memories of T'Challa pouncing on him out of the blue in Bucharest and reminding himself that T'Challa was a friend. An annoying, sneaky friend, but, yeah, a friend, and you don't punch friends in the face no matter how badly they scare the shit out of you, especially when said friend had two guardians ready and more than willing to shish kabob you with their spears if you so much as looked cross-eyed at him.

"T'Challa," he said. Damn, he wished his voice hadn't cracked like that.

"My apologies for startling you," T'Challa said.

"You, uh, didn't startle me. Much."

T'Challa smiled like… _damn it, I will not say like a cat that ate the cream, even if that is exactly what he looked like._

While Bucky struggled to keep a sour look off his face, T'Challa spoke to Steve. "Captain Rogers, I would like to speak with Sergeant Barnes—"

"Bucky," Bucky muttered.

"— _Bucky_ ," T'Challa repeated, still wearing that stupid, smug smile, "alone for a few moments."

"Of course," Steve said. He lightly touched Bucky's elbow. "I'll arrange for a car and meet you at the main doors."

Bucky nodded. After Steve walked away, he jerked his chin back to the conservatory and opened the door. "Come into my office."

T'Challa stepped past him. "Wakanda has never been invaded, but I see how you are quietly usurping my territory from within. Very sneaky."

Bucky's eyes widened. _Oh god, the Doras are gonna stab me._ "No, no… I didn't mean it like—"

"I am joking. Remember, I told you nearly anywhere within Wakanda is yours for the exploring. If you need a desk brought into the butterfly conservatory, then we will bring you a desk."

"I'll keep that in mind, for, uh, whenever I come back outta... you know..." The words died on his tongue. He shoved the door open, then remembered his manners and held it for T'Challa. The two Dora took positions outside the entrance while he and T'Challa headed to the bench by the fountain.

T'Challa waited a moment, and when Bucky didn't speak, asked, "Are you fearful, Bucky, of going back into cryo?"

Bucky shrugged. "A little. Don't know what life will hold after that. But mostly right now I'm sad for Steve. He didn't want this to happen."

"And yet it is your decision, your life. Steve is a grown man, used to weathering storms of sorrow, as we all must."

Didn't take two guesses for Bucky to know that T'Challa was thinking of his father. "I guess I just hate being the cause of anybody's grief. Done too much of that in my life, to too many good people. I don't want to do that anymore."

"It is a good principle by which to guide your actions. I would tell you to feel no shame over the past, when evil men forced you into actions wildly at odds with your own convictions, but a good man will feel shame."

Or even a not-so-good man, but Bucky didn't say that out loud.

T'Challa continued, "My father taught me to understand that shame is not an evil feeling, on its own. It drives us to be better men, as long as we do not let it destroy us."

"Easier said than done. At least for me."

"I realize how that may come across as an empty platitude."

"No, not at all," Bucky protested. "I mean, you're just speakin' the truth. It's just… hard, you know?"

He nodded. "I cannot imagine how I would feel, in your shoes."

"You'd feel equal parts angry, stupid, ashamed, lost, and confused. And afraid. A lot afraid. Probably more afraid than anything at this point."

"Afraid of the future?"

The future, the past, the present… "I guess," he said slowly, "that I'm afraid I'll never be of use to anyone, for anything."

T'Challa frowned, but said nothing.

"All my life, or all I can remember of it, I always felt like I had a purpose. Taking care of my little sisters, taking care of Steve, taking care of the men in the 107th. But then…." He shrugged. Smiled a little. "I guess my usefulness took a left turn." He shrugged so that the stump of his left arm moved.

To his credit, T'Challa didn't wince at the terrible pun. "A man needs to have purpose. You will find yours, fear not."

More quiet moments passed, then Bucky said, "I'll fight for Wakanda, if you need me to."

"So you have promised already, and as king, I accept your oath, but it will surely be a long time yet before circumstances demand you fulfill it. You will need rest."

"And a new arm, I guess."

T'Challa shrugged. "I know many warriors who do quite well with one arm, but yes, if you wish for it, we will of course provide you with a new arm. Shuri is already working on prototypes."

Bucky glanced down at his left shoulder. "For a long time, I hated my arm. Hated that I had a weapon attached to me that I couldn't remove. But in the months after I... after Steve broke me free from HYDRA, I slowly came to realize that the weapon wasn't the arm, it was me. My mind. Or what they put in my mind. I can get by in life with or without a new arm, but…"

"Shuri will find a way to free your mind. Trust her."

Bucky nodded. "Is it weird that I don't miss it much? My arm, I mean."

"Not at all. There are no normals that cover your situation. However you feel is how you feel. There is no right or wrong."

"Sounds like something Dr. Lu would say."

"I am honored. He is a wise man."

Bucky thought for a moment, then said, "I think I don't miss it partly because right now, there's no one I have to fight. I'm safe here. No aliens. No HYDRA. No governments can find me. Or at least they can't easily find me. Can't say that I mind that."

T'Challa smiled.

Bucky continued, speaking slowly as he thought about his old arm and a potential new one. "I think… I think maybe I wanna go a while without a new arm. Just learn to be an ordinary guy, you know? Is that okay?"

"Of course."

"I wanna wake up just… being me."

"We will respect your wishes, of course. Shuri will likely keep working on a new one, but unless the worst comes and you simply must fight, electing to have a new arm will certainly be your choice."

"Thanks," Bucky said quietly. He felt a knot of tension release. He'd been more worried about a new arm than he realized.

He was surprised how easy it was now to talk with T'Challa. Dumping all his fears out to a king wasn't something Bucky ever thought he'd do, but something in T'Challa's expression made him feel safe, even safer than with Steve or Dr. Lu. With Steve, he had to worry about how his words might make him sad or devastated or angry. With Dr. Lu, he worried that he'd say something that would cause the doctor to throw his hands in the air and announce Bucky couldn't be cured. But T'Challa…

 _"... trust in Steve Rogers, and trust in me. I am confident we can help you find yourself once more. And I am equally confident that, when the day finally comes when you walk free from the shadows, you will call me friend."_

That was it, Bucky realized. Just as he'd predicted on that icy slope in Siberia, T'Challa had become a friend, probably the first Bucky had made who was familiar with his past. T'Challa had looked past the Winter Soldier and chosen friendship. Part of Bucky wondered if T'Challa was criminally naive, but mostly he was grateful. He blinked rapidly. "Thank you."

"For what?"

Bucky shrugged. "For all of this. But also for… choosing to be my friend."

T'Challa squeezed Bucky's shoulder. "Thank you for letting me."

"'Say my glory was to have such friends.'" Bucky heard himself murmur. Oh god, how corny was that? "Sorry. Just a line out of a poem. Popped in my head just now."

"It is a great poem. 'Think where man's glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was to have such friends.' Yeats, I believe. The context of the rest of the poem doesn't really apply, but the spirit of those lines are apt indeed."

"Yeah, that's the one. Friend of mine back in the war said it to me, the day our unit was captured by HYDRA. He was a Brit, assigned temporarily to our company when he got cut off from his own. Name was Falsworth. I was feeling pretty low, blaming myself for getting us captured, figuring everyone hated me as much as I hated myself for not seeing the ambush. He came up to me on the march when I was hanging back, put his arm around my shoulders and quoted that line of the poem. Sappy as hell, but that's the kinda guy he was. And I can't lie, it meant a lot." He had to clear his throat. "Anyway, back to your original question, I gotta be honest. It ain't just that I'm sad about what Steve thinks. I'm shit scared outta my mind about what I'll be when I come back out… if I come back out. Will I be me again or still be half me and half the Soldier? Dunno if I can handle it if they wake me up and I still can't trust my mind."

"While I trust Shuri's abilities and confidence, I can fully understand your fear. I am confident she'll be successful, but, sadly, there are no guarantees that even her genius is up to the task."

There wasn't much to say to that. Shuri was his best hope, looked like. Maybe Tony Stark might have come up with something, but that road was probably forever closed. He fought back the cloud of gloom that threatened to overwhelm him. "So, what's it like, having the smartest person in the world as your sister?"

T'Challa laughed. "It is, if I may be blunt, a pain in the ass."

Bucky chuckled. "I bet. My younger sister Rebecca wasn't the smartest woman in the world like Shuri, but she sure as hell was smarter than me. Never let me forget it, either."

"Thank Bast for family, for they keep us humble."

"You said it."

"I am glad you felt safe enough to be honest with me. It is important to have friends with whom one can be transparent. I am honored to be in that company."

Bucky had another troubling thought. "T'Challa, I've said it before, are you really, really sure about my being here? It's dangerous. For your country. For your personal reputation. You're harboring a fugitive with a helluva long list of crimes to his name. It kills me to think they'll catch wind that I'm here and cause problems for you, maybe even try to force their way in to capture me. I say that not because I'm afraid of getting captured, at least not by legitimate world authorities. I mean, they just want justice. But I'm worried about any Wakandans who might be injured trying to prevent what's left of HYDRA from coming after me."

T'Challa set his jaw. A steely light stole into his gaze. "They can try. And they will fail. Do not fear for such things."

Bucky nodded, but fat chance of that. He'd be worrying even while he was frozen.

"Do you remember your flight into Wakanda?" T'Challa was smiling faintly.

"Yeah, why?"

"Do you remember flying in, seeing the airport, all of that?"

"Yes."

"Tell me what you saw."

"Uh, lotta jungle. Mountains. Mist. Landing strip. Then the Dora Milaje and the ambulance. After that, I kind of fell asleep."

"What if I were to tell you that, aside from the Dora and the ambulance and jungle, much of it was an illusion?"

"The hell?"

"Wakanda is well hidden, Bucky. We have many ways of deterring visitors and many ways of concealing our nation, or at least our nation's true appearance. When you flew in, we carefully curated what you and Captain Rogers saw. I will leave it at that. But trust me, even though the two of you are trusted allies, you still know very little about Wakanda's defenses and it is best it remains so."

Bucky stared at T'Challa for several long moments. Finally, he laughed. "Guess that shouldn't surprise me. Your country beats anything in Brooklyn, and lemme tell you, that's a high compliment comin' from me." He leaned toward T'Challa with a conspiratorial wink. "Just don't tell Steve I said that."

"Not a word."

"I'm still gonna take you out for that beer someday."

"I expect it."

Bucky suddenly had nothing left to say, and apparently T'Challa didn't either, for he gave Bucky one last smile, shook his hand and made his leave. In the quiet that fell as the door closed, Bucky looked at the butterflies, the trees, then up at the clear blue sky beyond the conservatory roof. In some ways, he felt a little like a condemned man looking at his last moments of sunlight, but he quickly shook that off. This wasn't the end. This was… a respite. Maybe a cure. Maybe not. Hell, even if Shuri couldn't work her magic, he'd be no worse off coming out of cryo than he was going in. He'd just have to go back to fixing himself at his current snail pace, and they'd have to keep him in a cage or something when Steve wasn't around to hold him back. Could be worse. He could still be in Romania, with no one as an ally at all, looking over his shoulder constantly. Waiting for HYDRA to show up and take him back and ruin his brain, maybe for good.

But thank God for Wakanda. For good doctors. For Steve and hopefully Steve's team: Clint. Scott. Wanda. Sharon. Maybe even Sam, though he wasn't sure that was a good thing or bad. He'd probably wake up with a mustache drawn on his face or a "kick me" sign on his back if Sam was around. He also might have Natasha is an ally. She could have shot him when she had the chance, but she chose differently. That had been… surprising, to say the least.

So. Yeah. He had a bunch of Avenger types pulling for him, and ain't that the bee's knees. He also had a kid genius working on fixing all his broken parts. And if all of that wasn't enough pinch-me-I-must-be-dreaming, he had anhonest _-_ to-God _king_ who called him friend.

He didn't deserve any of it, but he sure as hell wasn't going to throw all that away. So he'd go into cryo, trust Shuri to figure out how to rewire his brain, and then after he was out, well… he'd just have to see how everything panned out. Maybe he'd end up living in some backwater of Wakanda, looking after cows or goats or something. Or maybe he'd figure out how to do the Avengers thing, if they'd have him. Be a way to pay back for all his past sins.

He took a deep breath and put all those good things in the very forefront of his mind, where they would block out all the sadness, rage, confusion and unworthiness, and he held onto them with an iron grip.

He was as ready as he could be.

It was time to get HYDRA the hell out of his head.

He stood and with one last wave at the butterflies, headed out the door to Steve and to the car waiting to take him to the cryo lab.

Who knows, maybe their driver would be Hasana.

 _Epilogue and effusive thanks to come..._

 _Author's notes:_

 _Butterfly houses or butterfly conservatories always have double airlock-style entrances and rules for entering and especially exiting that include checking yourself in big mirrors to make sure no butterflies are hitching a ride to freedom between your shoulder blades or on your head, but I omitted those details simply because it was too cumbersome to write ALL the details about butterfly houses in this penultimate chapter that needed to focus on the interpersonal relationship between Bucky and T'Challa. Hopefully the lack thereof didn't throw off the more pedantic among you. ;)_

"Think where man's glory most begins and ends,  
And say my glory was I had such friends."- _"The Gallery Revisited" from_ _The Last Poems_ , by W.B. Yeats, 1937


	37. Chapter 37

_Epilogue_

He was on a cloud.

He took a deep breath, let it out, then rolled over onto his right side, curled in a ball and snuggled deeper into the soft blankets.

Warmth. Warmth was good. It was wonderful. It was… not how he usually came out of cryo.

He must be dreaming. The peace in his mind and the comfort surrounding his entire body, the lack of any pain… yeah, had to be a dream.

Then his nose itched. He absentmindedly scratched it and realized that no, this wasn't a dream.

He opened one eye.

Through the hair falling over his face he saw a man's knee, with his ankle crossed over it. Dark pants. Boots.

The leg uncrossed, the foot dropped to the floor and Bucky shut his eye again. He didn't want anyone messing up his warm bubble of softness. He burrowed still deeper in the blankets. They smelled like flowers.

He heard a soft laugh.

Steve?

He remembered a sad face, bereft eyes.

Oh boy.

Cryo. His choice. Steve's sad mug the last thing he saw. Ugh.

How long had it been? A day? A week? A month? _Years?_

He tugged down the blanket just enough to peek over the edge. Stared at the knee. "Steve." He sounded hoarse, like he hadn't spoken in a long time. Dear God, please let it not be years.

"Hey, Buck." Soft voice, but a tremble.

Holy hell, don't let that sap be crying. He squinted up at Steve's face. Whoa, quite a beard there, buddy. Steve looked like he'd been running down a hard road without a chance to eat, sleep or apparently attend to basic facial grooming in a very long time. What the hell. Who knew he could even grow a beard like that? But yeah, the hairy punk was all damp around the eyes. Bucky would deal with the beard later. "Stop it."

Steve blinked a few times and then laughed. "Sorry. How you feeling?"

"Comfy," Bucky mumbled, then scooted back under the blankets. So _soft._

"How's your, uh…"

My brain, Rogers. You can say it. But he only grunted, "Dunno. Too sleepy." But his heart rate bumped up a few notches. Damn it. Increased heart rate and respiration did not mix with cozy blankets on a cloud bed. He thought about the three things that he told Shuri to unfreeze him for: looming interplanetary war, Steve badly injured, his brain… fixed. So it's one of those three things. He pulled the blanket down from his face and again squinted up at Steve. "You hurt?"

"Nope."

One down.

"Is there a fight?"

"Nope," Steve said.

He inhaled. Tried to keep his voice steady. "So Shuri fixed me?"

A faint smile. "She thinks she did."

Well.

Okay.

His heart rate kicked up a few more beats a minute. He licked his lips.

Damn. Could it be… did she really…

He wasn't ready to test it yet, so he he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, which was made of some kind of bamboo. Golden-brown, circular, with rafters radiating out like spokes on a wheel. The ceiling sloped down to meet plastered walls where gourd dippers, baskets and green, gold and red tapestries hung all over. He looked at the furniture. His bed was fairly low to the ground. Next to it sat a bowl of fruit on a small table. Across the room, a closed door with sunlight shining in the gap at the bottom. Rush mats all over the floor. A wooden chair currently occupied by a teary-eyed, bearded punk.

Definitely not the hospital, the fancy apartment or the shiny cryo lab. Shuri had promised that he would wake up in a warm bed, as if he had only been asleep, though he guessed she'd never really specified _where_ that bed would be. He did feel like he'd just had a very long, restful night's sleep. He slowly stretched his limbs, all the way to his toes. He felt… relaxed. Saturday-morning, no-work-to-do relaxed and lazy.

But where the hell was he?

From outside, he heard goats. Children laughing. Adults talking quietly. Birdsong.

He scowled. "Where the hell out in the boondocks did they stick me?"

"Not too far. Shuri thought it would be so unlike anything you've ever experienced it would make for a more peaceful transition."

"Huh. Okay." Guess he had mentioned farming goats. Herding goats. Whatever you did with goats.

He finally mustered up the energy to push the blanket off. He slowly sat up, waiting for his head to start whirling or the pterodactyls to come swooping in. Neither happened. Huh. That was… nice. He took a deep breath. Smelled more of that flowery scent mixed with something a little spicy. It smelled good. He blinked a few times and rubbed his face. "How long've I been here?"

"They thawed you yesterday, but kept you sedated while they transported you here. Then it was just a matter of waiting until the sedative wore off and you woke up naturally."

He glanced down at himself. He was wearing… some kinda red-and-black plaid dress? Then he realized it wasn't a dress but one of those robe things that African men wear. He was barefoot. Somebody had trimmed and buffed his toenails and fingernails, which was nice of them. Along with the traditional robe, he had a dark blue scarf around his neck and shoulders, bunched up from rolling around in it while he slept. He straightened it, but he wasn't sure exactly how it was supposed to go. Maybe it was supposed to hide his lack of a left arm? Because he didn't have a left arm, just as he'd asked. He fussed with the scarf until it covered that shoulder. Funny how not having an arm felt… mostly human. But dark memories crept around the edges of his mind. He pushed back against them and surprise, surprise, they actually faded. That, too, was new. Usually they crowded against him until he had to yank on his hair to distract himself. He ran his fingers through his hair, but he had no need to yank on it.

But the fact that the memories were there reminded him that… other things might still be there as well.

So how does a fella figure out if HYDRA and code words and compulsions to obey are all really out of his head? Time to address the elephant in the room. He looked at Steve. "Am I… me?"

"You always have been you. Deep inside."

Bucky glared. "Not what I meant."

Steve's face shifted from eye rolling to aggravation to embarrassment with comical speed. "Fine. Yes. You're you. Shuri's pretty confident all the HYDRA garbage is gone from your brain, and she also was able to repair some of the lesions and scars they left behind."

"How do I know for sure?"

"I guess I could say a few of the trigger words?"

"You know them?"

"Sharon tracked down the red notebook, sent it to me." He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. "You sure?"

He took a deep breath. "No, but I gotta know."

"English or Russian?"

"Russian."

"Figures. Guess it's a good thing I've been practicing. Okay, here goes nothing. желаниe _._ " He said it perfectly.

Bucky waited a beat, then shrugged. Too soon to tell. Maybe. Probably.

Steve recited the next one.

Nothing.

The third.

Still nothing. Not even a peck from a pterodactyl.

Bucky started to smile.

Fourth, fifth, sixth… by the time Steve got to the last one, Bucky was smiling so widely his face actually hurt, but it was the best pain he'd ever felt in his life. "She did it," he said, then he laughed and he might be crying too, but he didn't care. "Oh my god, she really did it!"

He jumped to his feet and staggered a little.

"Whoa, easy, Buck," Steve said as he grabbed Bucky's arm. "You okay?"

"Stop it, mom, I'm fine." He grinned. "I'm way more than fine." He let out a whoop and Steve laughed and then they spent a few minutes hugging and slapping each other and dancing around the little hut, stopping only when Steve stumbled and nearly knocked over the small table. The bowl tipped and plums rolled everywhere.

"You still can't dance for shit," Bucky said, and they both found that uproariously funny and laughed hard enough that Bucky's ribs now hurt along with his face. It took him a few minutes to get himself back under control, and when he did, he said, "How long?"

Steve sobered. "Not quite two years."

Two years. Wow. Okay. Felt like nothing, but damn, all that time had to have been hell on Steve. "You sit there staring at me for all that time? That explain the hair and beard? Cuz you look like you haven't had a good night's sleep at least that long."

"No, I did not sit and moon over you all that time, get over yourself. I've been busy. Got the team out. Scott and Clint headed back to the States, took a deal to let them be with their families under house arrest. Sam, Nat, Wanda and I have been on our own, based here in Wakanda when we have to come in for whatever reason."

"So Nat switched sides?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"What about Stark?"

"He's got the Avengers. Spider-man. Rhodey. Vision."

From the grim set of Steve's mouth, Bucky knew things weren't back to buddy-buddy between them. He didn't press for more. "So the four of you been doing some kinda secret Avengers shit, I guess."

"You could call it that. We go in where we think we're most needed. Get there before the actual Avengers half the time, since they have to wait on permission from a bunch of politicians."

"Not that you're bitter or anything."

Steve just grunted.

"Helluva world. So, the gang's all here?"

"Yeah. They're all outside. Shuri and T'Challa as well. They want to see you, but only if you're ready."

He wasn't sure he was. He didn't feel any of the disconnect between his head and his limbs that he used to with HYDRA's version of cryo, nor was his brain full of fog. He felt… refreshed. But that didn't mean he was ready to be the star attraction at a secret Avengers party. The memories were there, waiting. All of them, good and bad. He needed some time to process it all.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek. Maybe... maybe that could wait. Maybe he could start out his new life on a celebratory note, let friends surround him, help him forget his past for a little while. He had a feeling a lotta nightmares waited, lotta sleepless nights. Lotta long talks with Dr. Lu and Dr. Ifede and whoever else might help him. Helluva lot of soul searching and deciding how to make up for… everything. If he even could.

He took a deep breath. Yeah. He would put the worries and fears aside. Felt damned good knowing he _could_ put all that aside. He had control over his mind again for the first time in seventy-odd years. Thanks to Shuri. Thanks to T'Challa. Thanks to Steve. All of that was surely worth at least a little bit of celebration. His eyes started to prickle, but he blinked and cleared his throat and finally smiled.

"I'm ready."

 _-the end-_

 _-(until the next story comes along)-_

 _Wow. We've reached the finish line... but this is not the end of the line. Not by a long shot for Steve, Bucky or their stories. I have a lot of ideas to pursue, but no clue at this point which one I'll go with. I need to take a breather, let the fact that this one is done sink in. It's funny how finishing a long-form story like this feels. There's elation at bringing a story to a (hopefully) successful conclusion, but there's also a sort of melancholy that sets in. These characters in this setting and point in their lives have lived in my head for a long time, and it's hard to let that go. That said, I'm sure they'll soon tire of languishing in my head and start poking me to let them play again._

 _In the meantime, I can't express the gratitude I feel for all of you who have hung in there to the conclusion. I thank each and every one of you, from the guest reviewers to the folks over at tumblr who faithfully liked and reblogged each chapter update notice, to those of you who have reviewed every chapter and those of you who left a review at the very end, and those of you who read it without reviewing but bookmarked it as a favorite. Every single reader, no matter whether you left a review, a kudo or just read it quietly and enjoyed it... you're worth all the vibranium in Wakanda. Thank you, and I hope this take on "Bucky chooses cryo" helped you see that bit of canon from a new perspective.  
_

 _ **Lastly, and I can't believe I published this without including it, a massive, ginormous thank you to my Betas Three: Nath, Imbecamiel and Nefhiriel! This story absolutely would not have happened without your helpful input and encouragement.**  
_


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